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A DEBT OF HATRED 



GEORGES OHNET 


AUTHOR OF ” THE IRON-MASTER,” “ DOCTOR RAMEAU,” 
“ SOUL OF PIERRE,” ETC. 


TRANSLATED BY 

E. P. ROBINS 

I 



NEW YORK 

cassp:ll publishing company 

104 & 106 Fourth Avenue 



Copyright, 1891, by 

CASSELL PUBLISHING COMPANY. 


All rights reserved. 


THE MERSHON COMPANY PRESS 
RAHWAY, N. J. 


PART FIRST 


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A DEBT OF HATRED. 


I. 

O N a cold, foggy morning in December, in the drawing- 
room of a comfortable cottage on the Seyne road, just 
outside the gates of Toulon, seven men, of whom the oldest 
had not passed his fortieth year, were collected before a cheer- 
ful fire, chatting and smoking. A card-table, on which were 
cards and chips, stood by, awaiting the resumption of the 
interrupted game. It had struck noon, and the master of 
the house, a surgeon in the French navy, leaving his guests 
to take care of themselves for a moment, had gone to see 
how the preparations for breakfast were coming on. The 
sun showed his face fitfully among the clouds, and flakes 
of snow were fluttering in the air, driven hither and thither 
by a searching mistral which bent the flexible shoots of the 
tamarisks, whistled among the mimosas and olive trees, and 
set every nerve of the good people of Provence quivering. 
A young man, wearing a naval lieutenant's uniform, stood by 
the window drumming mechanically upon the pane and 
looking out upon the garden. 

“Well, Listel, what do you see out there ? “ asked one of 
the smokers, as he threw the butt of his cigarette into the 
grate. 

“ Nothing at all, my dear friend.” 

“What are you thinking of, then?” 

“ Nothing at all.” 

“ That is the beginning of happiness, so they say. For 
my part. I’m hungry.” 


2 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


“Your hunger will soon be appeased. Houchard has 
gone to give a look to his pots and kettles and confer with 
his cordon bleu on some supreme question.” 

“It seems that to-day we are to taste the famous bouil- 
labaisse of turbot and lobster.” 

“ Roubion will have to look out for his laurels.” 

“He says, you know, that bouillabaisse is good only when 
made from bass, red mullet, and scorpenes.” 

“He don’t know what he is talking about,” exclaimed a 
big, fat man, who brought with him into the room an appe- 
tizing odor of the kitchen. 

“Houchard, you remind me of the old gods in the 
mythology, who never went anywhere unless they were sur- 
rounded by a perfume of ambrosia. You smell of truffles, 
my friend ; it is a most auspicious omen.” 

“You shall have truffles, cooked in champagne. But to 
return to Roubion’s theories ” 

“ We’ll do nothing of the kind. We are certain of your 
success. Nothing inferior can possibly emanate from your 
kitchen. You are a natural born cook, and if your family 
had not decided that you were to look after the health of 
your fellow-men, your vocation would have led you to de- 
stroy them by good living.” 

“ Stop your nonsense. I shall get even with you pres- 
ently with a certain chicken a la Proven^ale and a 
pilaw ” 

“ Hold your tongue, or I shall not be able to wait a second 
longer.” 

“ For all that, you will have to exercise your patience for 
a quarter of an hour yet. Besides, our company are not all 
here.” 

“ What beastly weather ! ” said one of the guests, who 
had taken Tueutenant Listel’s place at the window. “ It 
looks as if the storm would last all day.” 


A DEBT OF DA TEED. 


3 


The sky had suddenly grown dark, and the feathery 
flakes were coming down thicker and faster in the cold air. 
Within a few moments the garden had become quite white, 
and a dead silence prevailed out of doors. 

“And to think that there are consumptives who come all 
the way from Paris to shake and shiver here.” 

“ They might as well go to the North Pole.” 

The door of the sa/on opened, interrupting their abuse of 
the weather. Upon the threshold, holding the door in such 
a way as to prevent the others from looking into the ante- 
chamber, stood a tall young man of about thirty, his face 
framed in blonde whiskers, with gray eyes and laughing lips, 
whose neat attire betrayed, by a thousand small details, the 
officer togged out as a civilian. 

“ Hello ! It is Burel ! Well, dawdler, you came near 
being late.” 

“ I have an excuse. Whom do you think I have brought 
with me ?” 

“ If you have brought fine weather with you it will be 
welcome.” 

“ I have done better than that by you, for you can have 
fine weather at most any time ; the sky of Provence does 
not sulk long, and the friend whom I have brought you, you 
were not sure that you would ever see again.” 

“ Who can it be ? Don’t keep us in suspense,” said the 
lieutenant, with calm unconcern. 

Look and see for yourself.” 

The newcomer threw wide the door, and standing aside, 
thrust forward into view a man of middle height, wrapped 
in his uniform cloak, his face tanned by exposure and 
emaciated by fatigue. The whole scene changed in the 
twinkling of an eye. The major bounded from his easy- 
chair ; every one arose and, with an explosion of glad sur- 
prise, this name arose to the lips of all the company : 


4 


A DEBT OF HATRED, 


“ Ploern^ ! ” 

“Yes, my friends, Ploerne,whom I lighted on just now as 
he was coming out of the Navy Department, and whom I 
brought with me to breakfast, provided you are willing to 
have him as a guest.” 

“ What an idea ! ” 

“ Where are you from now, my dear friend ? ” 

“ How long since you reached Toulon ? ” 

“ Have you come home for good ? ” 

“ How is your health ? ” 

All these questions had fallen on the young man like a 
hail-storm. He remained standing in the middle of the 
salon,, a little dazed, apparently, with a smile upon his lips 
and a pleasant expression, without thinking to take off his 
heavy mantle. His friends had swarmed about him, how- 
ever, and while he was calmly answering their questions 
had relieved him of his cap, cloak, and saber, and he was 
left standing in front of the fire-place, in full uniform, as 
if he had dressed to present himself before some one high 
in authority, looking at them all with softened eyes. 

“ Yes, I am well, although I am come back from the sta- 
tion on sick leave. I got into Toulon this morning on 
board the Provence, one of the boats of the Messageries 
Orientates, which comes direct from Shang-Hai. And I 
am come home for good.” 

“ And did you leave all our friends well ?” 

“ Well, no ; not very well. The work was hard and the 
campaign was a severe one. We lost a good many of our 
men.’' 

“ Were you with Marchand ? ” 

“ Yes. He died of cholera at Formosa.” 

“ And Briqueville ? ” 

“ He was killed at Fou-Tcheou.” 

“ And Darner ? ” 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


5 


“ Typhus took him off at Hanoi." 

“ And Serrurier and Bouet ? ’’ 

“ Both dead." 

Their voices died away. No one dared question further 
this specter returned from the land of death. It seemed as 
if no name could be uttered unless it were succeeded by 
that ghastly word : “ Dead." All those brave fellows, 
habituated as they were to look danger in the face, gazed at 
Ploerne with affrighted curiosity as they stood grouped 
around him. 

“ Well, old fellow, you’ve got the four gold bands, I 
see ! " exclaimed Lieutenant Listel. 

“Yes," said Ploerne, and lowering his voice as if fearful 
to hurt the feelings of those of his friends whom he had 
outstripped in rank, “that came after my wound; the ad- 
miral mentioned me in his dispatch, and I got my step." 

A grave silence succeeded the utterance of the words, 
“ the admiral," and every face became clouded. 

“ You were with him, Ploern^, were you not ? " 

“ Yes, he took me as his aide-de-camp, to replace poor 
Desvarennes." 

“Were you present when he died?" 

“Yes, I had recovered from my wound and reported for 
duty. He drew his last breatli in my arms." 

“ He handled the fleet admirably, didn’t he ? ’’ 

“ Yes, gentlemen. He was a superb leader. Every one 
had the most entire confidence in him. If he had said to his 
men, ‘We are going to storm Heaven,’ they would have an- 
swered, ‘Just as your honor says.’ And they would have 
followed him through thick and thin. Nothing was impos- 
sible that he laid his hand to ; he knew how to compel 
victory. The navy in him has sustained an irreparable 
loss." 

“AndjK^// have lost a good friend." 


6 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


“ Alas, gentlemen, the material loss in my case is little 
compared to the moral loss, and my affection, much more 
than my ambition, will suffer from the absence of that ex- 
cellent man, for I am about to leave the service. I told you 
a while ago that I had come home for good ; the meaning 
of that is that I am about to send in my resignation.” 

“ What ! you, at thirty-two, with your rank and the record 
you have made — why, you must be crazy ! You would be 
wearing the stars at forty-five. And do you mean to say 
that you are giving up such a splendid future? ” 

“ Yes, my friends,” said Ploerne, with his gentle firmness, 
“ I am giving up all the glory that life and the service 
seemed to have in store for me, and the sacrifice is easy, for 
in exchange I see before me a certainty of happiness.” 

“ Aha ! my boy,” exclaimed Listel, “ so you are going to 
marry, are you ? A sailor like you never gives up the sea 
except for a woman. If you are in love, you are taking the 
right course. Our career is an exacting one ; a man must 
give himself up to it body and soul, and the sailor who, in 
dirty weather or facing the enemy, has upon his mind any 
other care, any other anxiety, than the safety of the ship 
and crew that he commands, feels his mind and his courage 
shaken and distracted from the duty that lies before him. 
Our heart should have no other mistress than our ship ; 
otherwise we make bad leaders. You are right, Ploerne, not 
to have a divided allegiance ; but she to whom you have 
given this proof of your love must he a beautiful woman, for 
you loved the sea.” 

“ Yes, she is beautiful, and is worthy of the sacrifice that 
I am making for her sake, and when you come to know her 
you will see that, with all my airs of renunciation, I am 
giving little and receiving much.” 

“ Good enough ; you are contented with your lot, and 
that is a thing we see. so seldom that it excites our ad- 
miration.” 


A DEBT OF. HATRED. 


7 


“ Come, my dear friends,” the major interjected, “ it seems 
to me that the pleasure of this happy meeting has diverted 
our attention from the object of ~our gathering, which is 
breakfast.” 

“ Ah ! there you behold the materialism of these doctors. 
To think of reminding us of our stomach, when we are all 
heart.” 

“ That’s a fact, but it is twelve o’clock. For whom are 
we waiting now ? ” 

“ Eh ! the Marquis Girani.” 

“ Most likely he forgot himself at Monte-Carlo and failed 
to come home last night.” 

“ We may as well sit down — if he is coming, that will 
make him come more quickly.” 

Houchard rang the bell and directed the servant who 
answered it to serve the breakfast. 

The company straggled into the dining-room in friendly 
disorder. Their host was d, gourmet of the first water ; that 
was readily to be seen by simply looking at the table equi- 
page. At every plate there was a platoon of glasses of every 
size and shape, arranged symmetrically, according to size, 
from the tall, bell-shaped glass for the champagne down to the 
tiny receptacle for the Cliateau-Yquem, with tinted* glasses 
intervening for the hocks and saiiternes, and stout little 
goblets for the warm, generous Burgundy. Although it was 
midwinter the cloth was covered with flowers, but in that 
happy land of Provence flowers seem to bloom among the 
snow-drifts. Some fine crawfish, en buisson, formed a pend- 
ent to a miglity pdH de foies gras, and dishes of caviare 
alternated with rosy prawns. 

The sun, shining out from between the clouds, cast his 
rays over the resplendent table furniture of crystal aitd silver 
and redoubled their cheerful radiance. Everything was 
temptingly and alluringly displayed to bring delight to the 
eve and gratification to the palate. 


8 


A DEBT OF HATRED, 


“Come, gentlemen,' take your places,” the host said with 
imposing solemnity ; “ the session is about to open, and the 
devil take the laggards.” 

“ There are none,” a ringing voice replied. And a young 
man, elegantly dressed and animated in bearing, entered the 
room with a laugh upon his lips. 

“ Ah ! Girani, are you there ? Glad to see you. Shake 
hands with the gentlemen and take your seat ; it won’t do 
to be too polite ; it would make us lose too much time. 
Only let me make you acquainted with our friend M. de 
Ploern^. Ploern6, my dear friend, the Marquis Girani. 
There, now let us have no more ceremony. Let’s give our- 
selves up entirely to the enjoyment of the meal.” 

The newcomer had bowed politely and taken his place 
between the major and Lieutenant Listel. Ploerne, from 
his seat at the other end of the table, eyed the Italian with 
curiosity. He was the only one of the guests with whom he 
was not acquainted. He was the only civilian among all 
the men of war collected in the dining-room. He was the 
only foreigner among those Frenchmen. At the first glance 
the young man’s bearing and appearance did not impress 
the captain favorably. There seemed to him to be some- 
thing irregular and abnormal in this close companionship 
between his friends and the marquis. He scrutinized the 
guest closely, as if endeavoring to read his moral worth, and 
although the foreigner had twice encountered Ploerne’s 
eyes riveted upon his own, he appeared to attach no 
importance to the inspection to which he was being sub- 
jected. 

He was very much at his ease, very cheerful and familiar, 
an agreeable and responsive guest, eating appreciatively and 
laughing with charming glee at the sallies of his cqmpanions 
and at his own utterances. He was an extremely handsome 
young fellow, with an olive complexion, great brown eyes, — 
rather too languishing for a man’s face, — a curling mustache 


A DEBT OF HA7EED. 


9 


and white teeth. His commanding forehead, topped by a 
thatch of thick, black, wavy hair, made up for the slight 
touch of effeminacy that his other features displayed. He 
spoke without accent, but with that rapid utterance and that 
nasal drawl that are common to Neapolitans and give the 
voice a sort of sing-song quality. And yet, in spite of his 
careless gayety, he seemed to be keeping a tight rein on 
himself, and although he answered freely whenever he was 
addressed, made no attempt to take a leading part in the 
conversation. 

When Ploern^ had completed his physical examination, 
he applied himself to obtaining some information as to the 
social status of the person who was occupying his attention. 
He bent over toward his neighbor, the tall young man who 
had introduced him there, and said to him : 

“ Who is this Italian ? ” 

“Why ! that is the Marquis Girani.” 

“ The Marquis Girani — that tells me nothing ; I am no 
wiser than I was before. Whence does he come ? What is 
his occupation ? How did you make his acquaintance ? ” 

“ There, there ! What curiosity ! Do you take him for 
a spy ? ” 

“ How do we know ? ” the captain gravely said. “ Have 
we not been overrun with that kind of cattle here in France 
ever since the war?” 

“ My dear friend, this man is too fond of good living to 
think of anything but pleasure. He is too fond of women, 
cards and good cheer to harbor dark designs. Persons of 
deep mind do not run after worldly delights with such 
ardor. Conspirators do not devote all their faculties to 
having a good time. Where the devil would that fellow find 
room in his noddle for a serious thought? He never thinks 
of anything unless how to raise a laugh.” 

The Italian, in fact, as if in confirmation of the estimate 


lO 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


that had just been made of him, was at this moment laugh- 
ing with the fresh and rippling laugh of a child. 

“ Have you and our friends been long acquainted with 
him?-’ 

“ Only since the beginning of winter. We met him at 
Monaco while the squadron was lying in Villefranche 
roads. Listel, the blockhead, went dead broke at trente et 
quarante; he was broke to his last sou and had no means of 
getting on board his ship, when Girani, who had been play- 
ing at the same table, saw the trouble that he was in and 
very handsomely came to his relief. As he was returning 
to Nice in a carriage, he sat our friend down on the way. 
Listel called to thank him. Girani returned his visit on 
board the ship. In a word, he is a nice fellow, we liked 
him, and have become his friends. To tell the truth, he 
seems unable to get along without us ; he shares all our 
amusements.” 

“ You seem to be very confiding on board the squadron,” 
Ploerne ironically observed. 

And you seem to be devilishly suspicious out in China.” 

We find it necessary.” 

But is it necessary here, when we are at peace with all 
the world ? ” 

Parbleu! In time of peace prepare for war, you know. 
It is through fellows like this Girani, assisted by the unsus- 
pecting good nature and the blind hospitality of a few offi- 
cers of the army or of the navy, that Italy may secure the 
plans of our defenses among the Alps and the number of 
guns mounted on our fleet.” 

As if it was such a difficult matter to count 
our guns. Any one can do that by rowing about the harbor 
in a small boat.” 

“ That’s all very well, but what they cannot learn, except 
in your company, is our fears, our hopes, our plans, and 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


II 


projected enterprises. You do not blab, I know that ; 
you are close-mouthed. Still, a word escapes you some day 
which has in itself no meaning, but which, taken in connec- 
tion with another word that you let fall the day before, be- 
comes pregnant. In this way, by collecting bits and 
snatches from day to day, a fellow like this Girani, indiffer- 
ent and unconcerned to all appearances, but really cunning 
and calculating, comes to know as much as we do ourselves 
about the details of our fleet and the designs of its com- 
manders. And all this goes on in the midst of poker par- 
ties, bumpers of champagne, and the pursuit of little 
women.” 

‘‘The devil!” 

“Now, I am telling you all this,” Ploerne continued, 
seeing that his friend was a little ashamed of himself, “ but 
there is nothing to prove that there is a word of truth in 
my supposition. Your friend may be a perfect gentleman, 
who, as you say, has not an idea in his head except those 
that are connected with pleasure ; but it might very well be 
entirely different without you having the faintest suspicion 
of it. It all depends on what kind of man he is. Bah ! 
let’s talk of something else. We others, we Tonquinese, as 
you call us, look upon everything through black spectacles. 
We have suffered too much.” 

The repast had reached that point where the edge is 
taken off the appetite and an opportunity is offered for the 
display of gastronomic dilettantism. Major Houchard, 
-wishing to give his guest a respite, turned to Ploern^ and 
addressed him thus : 

“ So, my dear boy, you had a rough time of it in the 
China seas, that are so dangerous during the stormy season. 
And the ships, how did they behave ? ” 

“ They couldn’t have behaved better,” the young man 
replied. “ It is the captain that brings out the quali- 


12 


4 DEBT OF HATRED. 


ties of tlie ship, you know. Our old hulks behaved like 
brand new iron-clads, but they will all have to be sold for 
old iron as soon as the war is over. The blockade of For- 
mosa was terrible. For days and days together we were 
cruising in weather that was not fit to let a Chinaman go out 
in, and we plow and plow the sea with no other prospect 
than to commence again next morning the same weary task 
that we had performed the day before. Never a moment’s 
rest for the men, never a run on shore ; no other prospect 
than a stormy sea and a threatening sky, with that rascally 
coast lying on the horizon, and all about us typhoons, hurri- 
canes and tidal-waves, until one would think that wood and 
iron could stand it no longer. And then we had the dysen- 
tery on board ; they called it dysentery, but, between you 
and me, it was cholera. Not a week passed but some of 
our brave sea-dogs disappeared, and when the weather was 
too bad to let us land, there was a bit of a mass said upon 
the quarter-deck in the presence of the ship’s company ; 
then the poor corpse was slipped overboard out of a port- 
hole and was swallowed up in the stormy depths, which 
thus lulled the slumbers of the dead as well as the watches 
of the living. We have seen many a one go in that way, and 
in the sea and on the land we have scattered many bones. 
Lucky were those poor men who fell beneath the fire of the 
enemy, for the widows of those who die from the effects of 
fatigue and disease do not receive a full pension ; yes, my 
friends, red-tape makes a difference between him who dies 
of cholera or typhus, thousands of miles away from his 
mother country, and him who falls struck by a rifle-ball or a 
fragment of shell. It seems that the skin of one is worth less 
than the skin of the other, and between the brave fellows 
who were equal in the face of danger, the regulations create 
an inequality in death.” 

“ Ah ! my dear friend, if you expect to reform those 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


13 


things you will have your hands full. There are a hundred 
injustices of that sort that we have to endure. Chinese ways 
and tricks are not unknown outside of China, and the offices 
in the rue Royale have a very pretty collection of them.” 

There was a storm of indignant protest about the table at 
these words. 

“To the devil with politics. We won’t have them here. 
Talk of love or war ; talk of women, well or ill, according to 
your inclination, but let the government stagnate in peace. 
Ploerne, tell us something about the women that you saw 
out there.” 

“ They were hideous Annamites, with teeth blackened by 
betel and lips burned by lime. Ah ! my friends don’t call 
such objects women ” 

“ The deuce ! I have known Chinese women who were 
not so very bad. And as for the Japanese ” 

“The Japanese women are charming,” Listel exclaimed. 
“ They have only one defect — they insist nowadays upon 
dressing themselves in European style. Their black eyes, 
their high cheek-bones, and their bronze complexion, with 
the flowing dress embroidered in bright colors — it was all 
as pretty as a picture.” 

“ Every country is losing its local coloring. Ten years 
hence Constantinople will have no sights to show us, and, 
thanks to the railroads, all Persia will soon be attired in the 
latest fashion of la belle jardinibre. Ah ! the days of uni- 
versal leveling are at hand ; the mean and commonplace 
will soon have made us all equal.” 

“ That is the future that the world has in store for it. 
Everything will be commonplace ; the great refinements of 
luxury will cease to exist, and except in the houses of the 
ten or twelve billionaires who will share between them the 
wealth of the globe^there will no longer be anything exquisite, 
artistic, or unique. Just as men and wornen will appear likQ 


14 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


proofs, of greater or less ugHfiess, struck off from the same 
type, in the same way manufactured objects, whether they be 
artistic in their nature or not, will be identically similar re- 
productions from one model. Every one will possess the 
same hat, the same coat, the same umbrella, the same car- 
riage, the same furniture. The rare trifle, the precious bibe- 
lot., the charming little nothing that comes so high, will exist 
only in the collections of the museums. These things will 
be made thousands at a time, all run in the same mold, 
manufactured from the same substance and painted of the 
same color. Universal uniformity, that is the end to which 
we are tending, — and it will be terrible ! ” 

“ Gan’t you see an example of that in the recent styles of 
building ? ” said the Italian in his sonorous voice. “ Look 
at the new structures -that are going up at Naples and at 
Rome. All the houses there are absolutely alike. Not 
only does one house resemble another house, but they are 
all like the houses that are built at Paris at the same time. 
Five stories they have, and the same unvarying fa9ade. Un- 
less a man is careful to look at his number he is as likely to 
enter his neighbor’s house as his own.” 

“Well, my friends, taste me this cognac,” the master of 
the house authoritatively said, “ and you’ll swear that there 
is nothing like it in the world. There is a choice, exquis- 
ite drink for you. But Listel is right ; ten years hence we 
shall not be able to get a toothful of it. Even now no one 
knows where to go to look for it.” 

The dining-room was redolent with the aromatic perfume 
of the coffee. A delicious languor had taken possession of 
the guests. The flowers had begun to wilt and hang their 
heavy heads in the warmth of the apartment. The smoke 
of the first cigarette ascended in blue wreaths toward the 
ceiling. Outside, the weather was becoming darker and 
darker, and the snow was coming down silently in great 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


^5 


heavy flakes. Among these men, young all of them, and 
free, for there were none but bachelors there, the conversa- 
tion, which had begun by being serious and then had turned 
to satire, now took a gallant turn and the talk was of 
women. It was a subject fruitful of controversy, if every 
one had expressed his opinion and tried to impose his pref- 
erences upon the others, but the guests limited themselves 
to telling the story of their adventures. There was nothing 
special, nothing new ; the old story of the love affair in gar- 
rison ; and except the place of residence of the fair one, the 
color of her eyes and hair, the nickname that she went by, 
her gayety or her moroseness, it was the same old story, 
with the same beginning and the same end ; the “ ready- 
made ” article, just as in the case of the other manufactures. 

While chatting thus they had arisen and left the dining- 
room for the salon. There, buried in luxurious easy-chairs, 
with eyes half closed and a fragrant cigar between their 
lips, the young men had felt themselves disposed toward 
greater confidence, and for the last hour no one had had 
any secrets for his neighbor. Ploerne alone was serious, 
and listened to this chorus of indiscreet revelations without 
taking part in it. In addition to the fact that he was not 
inclined by nature to tell of his good fortunes, he had none 
to tell, returning, as he was now doing, from a foreign sta- 
tion. He looked with somewhat of disdain upon his friends, 
giving their mind to such miserable trifles. The engrossing 
interest of the life that he had led for the last two years, in 
the midst of fatigues and dangers without number, made 
him unsympathetic for the triflers who were obliged to have 
recourse to such futilities to fill up their empty life. Pie 
could not remember that he had ever been like them. He 
judged them in accordance with his impressions for the time 
being, and it made him sad to feel how little community of 
thought there was between himself and all those men 


i6 


A DEB T OF HA TRED. 


who were his equals and from whom he felt himself parted 
by such a gulf. Then he reflected that he was probably in 
their company for the last time, that everything in the 
future would separate him from them^ and that conse- 
quently his disagreeable impression could not last and had 
no reason for existing. He could not throw off the 
melan holy that took possession of him. He could not re- 
member, when he was so far from France, by night, on the 
deck of his ship, facing the immensity of sea and sky, to 
have ever experienced such a complete sensation of isola- 
tion as now in the midst of these laughing, drinking, and 
smoking young men, telling one another the story of their 
amorous conquests. He made an effort to banish this 
gloomy impression, and his imagination carried him far 
away from the noisy, merry crew into a scene that was full 
of peace and security. It was not far from Nice, on the 
banks of the sea, in a little inlet of Villefranche Bay, where, 
at the very foot of the old Saracen tower that crowns the 
headland of Saint-Hospice, a white-and-pink villa rested 
among verdure and flowers. There lived three women, in 
tranquil solitude — one aged and two quite young, all of them 
impatiently awaiting his return ; the aunt, Mme. de Saint- 
Maurice, troubled by the dread that she might not live long 
enough to see him again, and his two cousins, one with the 
glad expectancy of sisterly affection, the other with the ardor 
of a plighted love. He beheld the three women gathered 
together and industriously plying their needle in the salon 
whose windows looked out upon the sea, never suspecting 
that the absent one was so near to them. What would be 
their surprise and joy when he should unexpectedly present 
himself before them, for they were not to expect to see him 
for two months after the receipt of his last letter. He had 
left for home unexpectedly and had not written, because he 
would be there at the same time that a letter would reach 


A DEB 7' OF //A TEED. 


1 


them, and as for cabling, he would not have done that on 
any account, from the fear of frightening his aunt, who had 
a horor of those mysterious blue envelopes whose folds 
always seemed to conceal the announcement of misfortune. 
And then, too, he would receive a sort of selfish pleasure 
from their glad surprise. The bell of the great gate would 
tinkle, the barking of the dog would tell him that the ser- 
vant was coming to open it to him. And that servant 
would be Leila, the quadroon nurse of his fiancee^ whom 
Mine, de Saint-Maurice had brought back with her from Isle 
of France. She would give a cry of amazement upon be- 
holding him, and as if by enchantment the house would 
awake to life'. The old aunt would show herself at a win- 
dow, the two young girls would come running to meet him 
with arms outstretched, laughter in their eyes, and a smile 
upon their lips. Ah, the charming vision ! And which of 
them would he greet most lovingly, his chilhood’s friend or 
his fiancee ? Whatever might be the answer to that ques- 
tion, joy and delight would be the portion of the exile who 
was about to meet again all who were dearest to him, the old 
aunt whom he respected like a mother and the two young 
girls, of whom one would be to him all his life long a charm- 
ing and devoted sister, the other an exquisite and adored 
wife. How he burned to bring his business to an end with 
the authorities and be on his way toward that house that he 
had so many times beheld in dreams ! And how flat, stale, 
and unprofitable everything appeared to him that was not 
connected with the dear delight of seeing those whom he 
loved so well ! He lingered among his thoughts with a 
feeling rapture, and so thoroughly had he withdrawn him- 
self from all that was about him that it was almost with an 
emotion of surprise that he came back after a little to the 
sensation of the empty present. It seemed to him that he 
y was awaking from a long slumber during which he had been 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


i8 

charmed by a delicious dream. The sing-song, high- 
pitched voice of the Italian marquis reached his ear. 
Girani, with infinite reticence and precaution, was com- 
mencing to tell the story of an adventure of his. His 
comrades had railed him on his silence when all were 
abandoning themselves to confidences, or perhaps to empty 
boasting rather, but he had not responded to their urgent 
solicitation. He kept a mask upon his features, without, 
however, being able to conceal a smile that had raised the 
curiosity of those present to the highest pitch. 

“ Ah, Marquis ! you are a sly dog ; I am certain that you 
are one of the most favored among mortals. With your 
face and form, rich, free, you ought to do terrible execution 
among the women. At this very moment you look like a 
man who is enjoying his good fortune in secret.” 

Girani continued to hold his tongue, and yet the express- 
iveness of his glance, the quivering of his lips, and the 
bright look upon his face, constituted the most eloquent 
of avowals. The others, burning to know that which he 
seemed determined to conceal, kept egging him on. Could 
he not tell them the story of his adventure, without mention- 
ing the name of the seductive heroine ? For it was not to 
be doubted that she was seductive. 

“ Oh, yes ! charming, indeed ! ” the marquis let fall. 

This confession had been received with acclamation, and 
the Italian had gradually allowed himself to be lured to the 
verge of indiscretion. Now he was telling the tale of 
his romantic intrigue, and all were listening to him in silent 
attention, captivated and somewhat jealous. It was at 
Monaco, while visiting the palace of the prince, that he had 
met the object of his adoration, accompanied by another 
young lady and an elderly person. There could be noth- 
ing more decorous than the bearing of these young persons 
under the direction of their relative. He had cautiously 


A DEBT OF hatred. 


19 


kept in tlie background, but had followed them at a dis- 
tance, admiring their inherent gracefulness and their un- 
affected enjoyment ; for an hour he had followed them thus, 
listening to their reflections, their remarks and the questions 
that they addressed to their guide, delighting himself with 
their charm, and not knowing which of them pleased him 
most, the blonde or the brunette, for, of the two young 
ladies, one was dark and the other fair. They did not seem 
to have noticed his presence, and if he had not offered his 
hand to assist the old lady in descending a dark staircase, 
they would not have even looked at liim. Upon reaching 
the court, however, they had turned their head and there, 
with a pleasant smile, had addressed him a word of thanks. 

There was a hands- une landau and pair awaiting them at 
the gate of the chateau ; they had taken their seats and 
driven rapidly away on the Condamine road. He had re- 
mained at Monte Carlo, charmed by the beauty of the two 
girls, so dissimilar and yet so perfect in all its details, his 
mind filled with the remembrance of them. Then he 
had gone off to the card-room and lost a pile of money, 
and unaffected by his bad luck, had passed the remainder 
of the day dreaming of the two charming persons who had 
made such an easy conquest of him and whom, in all likeli- 
hood, he would never set eyes on again. Chance, however, 
took it upon herself to bring them together once more, and 
this time to inform him who the lady was who was destined 
to have his love. To occupy one of his aimless days he 
had proposed to himself to pay a visit to the American 
man-of-war that each year is stationed in Villefranche roads, 
and after devoting a couple of hours to sight-seeing under 
the polite guidance of the Yankee officers, he had returned 
ashore, and before taking the train had walked about the 
banks of the bay along the shaded roads, watching the azure 
sea as it broke on the brown rocks, twisting in its silvery 


20 


A DEBT OF I/A TEED. 


surges the long marine growths like Naiads* tresses. He 
was strolling along, meditatively, engrossed in tlie beauty of 
the scene, giving himself up to the enjoyment of the cool 
breeze and the cloudless sky, when, at a bend in the road, 
he came upon two women picking flowers. The first was a 
quadroon, with a red Madras handkerchief about her head, 
her face of the color of bronze, who was carrying in her 
arms a great bunch of mimosa and jasmine. The other was 
one of the two young ladies whom he had encountered at 
the Grimaldi palace. She had recognized him and replied 
to his salutation with a smile ; then she had gone her way 
and he had followed her at a distance, so as not to frighten 
her, keeping in sight her white dress as it appeared and dis- 
appeared among the shrubbery, and in this way he had 
come to a pink and white villa buried among flowers. The 
young lady had vanished and he, after waiting a long time 
before the gate, certain that he had traced her to her dwell- 
ing-place, had returned to Monte Carlo, heart and mind 
occupied by the fair stranger to the exclusion of all else. 

Ploern^ at first had heard this story without paying attention 
to it. He was dreaming. And all at once, by some inex- 
plicable phenomenon, the characters in the Italian’s story 
were become the same as those of his dream. Three 
women, one old and two young. A secret instinct told 
him that they were the same that had just now been present 
in his thought. Why ? Might not Girani have met others 
than they ? It mattered not. All his being was shaken by 
an unutterable anguish, and with no apparent reason for 
his jealousy, he suffered horribly. He listened to the con- 
tinuation of the Italian’s tale, how he watched for the pretty 
inhabitant of the villa, how he waited for her in places that 
she frequented so as to exchange a glance with her, then 
the sudden audacity which, the opportunity presenting itself, 
impelled him to speak to her, and the disdainful wrath of 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


21 


the young lady that succeeded his attempt. Then came a 
letter in excuse of his forwardness, and he persisted in writ- 
ing, although he got no answer. And at last an acquaintance 
formed with the quadroon, who had taken sides with him. 
And so the story of the adventure with the thoughtless child 
went on, in the midst of the smoke of cigars, among the 
burning glances of those men, with indecent remarks and 
insulting questions, and there was no room to doubt that 
they were the same women ; that the house toward which 
Girani turned his steps with such glad anxiety was the same. 
In a second’s space all his hopes, all his happiness had been 
thrown down in the dust and trampled under impious feet ; 
the limpid lake in which his life to come was mirrored so 
calmly became a filthy sewer from which he turned with 
horror and disgust. 

In the mean time the Italian, in his low, monotonous 
voice, went on with his narration. He had now come to 
the nocturnal meetings in the perfumed garden beneath the 
light of the full moon, which imparted a mysterious charm 
to their whispered conversation. An overwhelming sorrow 
seized Ploerne’s soul. He could no longer doubt, although 
he tried to shut his eyes to the minute details which bore 
witness to the reality of the horrible facts. One single hope 
survived in this wreck of all his moral being. In the house 
where dishonor had now taken up its abode there were two 
young girls ; which of them had gone astray? Was it the 
sister or was it the fiancee ? It was a cruel thing for 
him to be compelled to ask the question, and it lacerated 
his heart, but nevertheless h^had to ask it. In his burning, 
throbbing brain the dreadful problem presented itself : 
which ? And he feared to solve it as much as he suffered 
by remaining in ignorance. 

But there was one respect in which he did not hesitate for 
one moment, and that was the wild, savage, uncontrollable 


22 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


hate that inflamed his heart and mind against the hero of 
the adventure. Pale, with set teeth and blazing eyes, he 
gathered himself up as if to spring Upon the Italian. His 
heart beat as if it would burst his bosom, and yet his mind 
was cool and collected. He calculated what he should do ; 
his trembling hand, in haste to strike, was raised in uncon- 
scious menace, and at the same time he reasoned lucidly. 
He said to himself : I cannot fall upon him and beat him 
without warning. There must be a brief explanation of 
some sort between this cur and me, so that my friends may 
not think I have gone stark, staring mad. And yet I 
must insult him, I must spit my rage and scorn in his face 
in such a way as to return to him something of what I have 
suffered at his hands within the last half hour. 

A tumult of confused voices gave notice that the narra- 
tion had come to an end. The guests, collected about the 
marquis with his smiling face, were exchanging their 
impressions. 

“ We can understand now, my dear Marquis, why you 
have been away so much of late. You resort to Villefranche 
more than to Nice and Monte Carlo, and your friends of 
the fleet don’t see much of you.” 

. “Can you blame me, gentlemen?” the Italian fatuously 
asked. 

“Not a bit. But what is the end of it all to be ? Every 
story has an end, you know. If the young girl is of good 
family and rich, and if you love her, as you say you do, you 
must marry her, my dear friend.” 

The Italian was pensive for^i moment and a cloud passed 
over his face; then his smile appeared again ; “Yes, that’s 
all very well, but what would the marquise say to that ? 
She is in Florence at present.” 

“What ! You’re married? the devil, that’s a complica- 
tion ! You never told us that you were married.” 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


23 


“ I am not living on very good terms with my wife, and 
never speak of her unless when necessary. But she is none 
the less a reality, and there is no divorce in Italy. Besides, 
the marquise is a strict Catholic, and would not submit to a 
rupture of the conjugal tie if she could help it.” 

“And yet you adore the young lady ? ” 

“ I adore her.” 

There was silence ior a moment ; then a voice whose 
incisive tone made the nerves of all the company quiver, 
uttered these words : 

“ You must be a dirty dog to have behaved toward her as 
you did.” 

Silence fell upon them all again, deep, overwhelming, 
deathly. The guests, who had risen to their feet, gazed 
upon Girani’s livid face, and at three steps from him stood 
Ploerne, smiling, but with a smile that was terrible to look 
upon. 

“I did not hear aright,” the Italian stammered, “or per- 
haps you were joking ? We are all friends here, but still 
the expression seems a little strong.” 

The captain frowned, and advancing toward the marquis 
near enough to touch him with his finger, said : “ I was not 
joking, and I repeat that the man who committed the 
scoundrelly action that you boasted of is the lowest of the 
low.” 

“But, Monsieur, that is an insult !” Girani exclaimed. 

“ It seems to have taken you quite a time to get it 
through your head,” Ploern^ said, with bitter sarcasm. 

The Italian made an appealing gesture to the bystanders. 
He appeared to be dazed. It was all incomprehensible to 
him, this sudden interference, this unlooked for attack, 
this comedy brusquely terminating in a drama. 

Lieutenent Listel had thrown himself between the two 
men, and was trying to make Ploerne listen to reason. 


24 A DEBT OF I/A TEED. 

“ No ! ” shouted the captain, “ I will have no argument. I 
know the ladies of whom this fellow spoke. I say here, in 
presence of you all, that he has lied, and that he is a shame- 
less, boastful cur. He needs a lesson, and I take it on my- 
self to give it him.” 

At the words, “ I know the ladies,” the marquis sorrow- 
fully nodded his head. He was beginning to see how mat- 
ters stood. He attempted to speak, but two of the by- 
standers drew him away so as to part him from Ploerne and 
prevent the collision which seemed inevitable. The cap- 
tain remained in the drawing-room surrounded by his 
friends, who did their best to quiet him, but he kept an im- 
passive face and received all their arguments in silence. 
They tried to make him understand that there had been a 
misunderstanding ; that after all it was quite possible that he 
had been mistaken ; that, in any case, the marquis perhaps 
had been guilty of exaggeration. He remained standing 
motionless, silent, with a strange, fixed smile upon his lips. 
He was not listening to the words of his friends. One of 
the Italian’s utterances had produced a fresh storm in the 
mind of the captain. “ What would the marquise, who is in 
Florence, say to that ! ” So the seducer was a married man ! 
There was not even left to Ploern^ the remedy that he had 
contemplated for a moment — and what sorrow it had caused 
him — that of compelling this man to repair his fault by 
marrying his accomplice. He would not even have the 
bitter pleasure of restoring her honor to her who had so 
foolishly compromised herself. It was this disappointment 
that had caused him to break out with words of insult and 
that now animated him with an unconquerable rage. He 
still turned a deaf ear to the words of his friends. His face 
was pale as death, his nostrils were dilated, and his lips 
were compressed in the same menacing smile over his 
clenched teeth. 


A DEBT OF //A TEED, 


25 


^‘Come, there must be some way of arranging this busi- 
ness,” said Listel. “You don’t know Girani, you cannot 
be actuated by any feeling of animosity against him. There 
is certainly a mistake somewhere — it will all be made clear. 
See, here are our friends coming back.” 

The door had opened, and Houchard entered the room 
with another of the company. They were greatly agitated, 
but there was a smile upon their faces, that seemed to 
be of good import. 

“ Well,” Listel exclaimed, “ what decision have you ar- 
rived at ? ” 

“ We have reached an arrangement — ah, the deuce ! it 
was not such an easy matter ! ” 

“ Are you acting as seconds ? ” 

“ Of course.” 

“Then we four must be left alone. What shall we do 
with Ploern^ ? ” 

“But why is it necessary that we should be alone when 
we shall have to recall the captain to submit to him the 
agreement that we have under consideration, and the accept- 
ance of which by him will bring the whole matter to an 
amicable termination ? Nothing but words have passed be- 
tween them ; there was no personal violence — nothing irrep- 
arable — after a breakfast of friends, where all perhaps were 
a little warm with wine.” 

At the words, “ There is nothing irreparable,” Ploerne’s 
eyes flashed and his lips contracted with a more bitter 
smile. He uttered no word, however, awaiting the termi- 
nation of the negotiation. 

“ This is the result that we have arrived at,” said the 
major, “after a long talk with Girani, who was almost beside 
himself upon seeing the consequences that his empty boast- 
ing had led to — for it was all nothing but boasting. Our 
guest related to us a romance fashioned to suit his own 


26 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


taste ; the characters were true, but the plot was all inven- 
tion. He has told us that this is so, and he will acknowl- 
edge the same thing in your presence. It is true that he 
met the young lady in question, he became enamored of her, 
he roamed about the house where she lived, but he has never 
spoken a word to her, he has never had an interview with 
her. It was all empty talk on his part. He dreamed, and 
took his dream for reality ; he was drunk, in a word, and 
that is not a very heinous crime. And you have really been 
very hard on him.” 

Ploern6 interrupted his friend with a violent outburst of 
denial : “ Really ! You think so ? ” he said, in a voice inar- 
ticulate with anger. 

“ Come, come ! Don’t be angry. We admit that we are 
in the wrong ; we are willing, in consideration of our vapor- 
ing, to overlook your unwarrantable language ; but if we 
make these concessions you will at least consent, will you not, 
to withdraw the insulting expressions that you made use of ? ” 

The captain said nothing and did not stir hand or foot. 
He acquiesced neither in word nor in gesture. He seemed 
so little disposed to accept the arrangerrient that was offered 
him that the four seconds looked at one another with alarm 
and anxiety. 

^‘Come, Ploern6,” said Listel, “you can’t refuse to settle 
this business under conditions so favorable to 5'ou — or else 
you will compel us to believe that you are seeking to thrust 
a quarrel upon Girani. You agree, do you not It is 
settled ? ” 

Ploerne took a few steps about the room with an unde- 
cided air, then suddenly came to a stop : 

“ We are a dozen of us here in company. It may be 
that all are not close-mouthed, and the affair may get wind. 
For the better protection of the honor of her whose cause I 
have espoused, I shall require a declaration in writing.” 


A ~ DEBT OF DA TEED. 


27 


“ Well, we take it upon us to promise what you require. 
Girani will go to all possible lengths in the way of conces- 
sion. And then, too, he seems to have it at heart as much 
as you to defend the reputation of the person of whom he 
allowed himself to talk so inconsiderately.” 

Ploerne became paler still upon hearing this assurance of 
the interest which his opponent took in her whom he had 
wronged. The Italian’s seconds left the room ; the captain 
and his two friends were left alone. 

“ You see,” said Listel, “ everything is being arranged to 
your satisfaction.” 

“ Oh, entirely so ! ” the captain ironically said. 

They waited in silence. Without, the snow was still fall- 
ing. In the adjacent room, over the deep stillness that pre- 
vailed, was heard the sound of voices in discussion. A few 
minutes elapsed, when the door was thrown open and the 
seconds reappeared. Houchard, looking very grave, held 
in his hand a sheet of paper. He handed it to Listel, who 
read it over, as did his comrade, and then passed it to 
Ploern6, who looked at it with a glance almost of indiffer- 
ence. 

“ Now that we have complied with all your wishes, 
Ploern^, we expect that you, in your turn, will accede to 
our request. You will, will you not ? ” 

The captain raised his head, and, looking upon the four 
seconds with that expression which had already caused 
them so much alarm, said with an affectation of easiness : 

“ In the first place, I want to have a word with M. 
Girani.” 

“ But, my dear fellow, that is entirely inadmissible,” 
Listel exclaimed. “ There has been too much irregularity 
in the business as it is.” 

“ It was all for the best,” the surgeon pacifically observed. 
“ We don’t regret it.” 


28 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


“ But what you ask for now ” 

“ It is all one to me ; it is for you to take it or leave it,” 
said Ploerne, with his unvarying gentleness. 

“ We shall have to ask the marquis if he is willing.” 

The door had remained partly open. Girani, who had 
doubtless been listening, appeared at the threshold. He 
came forward toward the captain with a bearing of great 
digiiity. Ploerne, by a gesture, invited him to the recess of 
the window, and there, looking him in the face with terrible 
eagerness, all the blood of his heart seemingly concentrated 
in his countenance : “ Which of the two girls did you have 
reference to?” he asked, in a choking, trembling voice. 
“Which of the two — was it Lydie or was it Therese?” 
The problem of his life was to be solved witliin the next 
second ; all his future was at stake. He awaited the 
Italian’s answer with frightful anxiety. “ Which was it ? ” 
he repeated in a hollow voice. “ Oh, answer, I beseech 
you ! My life, more than my life, is at stake ! ” 

The marquis bowed his head as if in sorrow ; then firmly 
replied : “ I cannot give you the answer that you wish.” 

“Why?” 

“ Because that would be making myself guilty of another 
indiscretion, a hundred times more reprehensible than the 
first, for I know now to whom I am talking.” 

“ Ah, wretched man ! You do not see the hurt you 
are doing me. Take care ! ” 

Without answering a word, Girani left his position at the 
window. Ploern6 followed him with flashing eyes. 

“Well ? ” questioned Houchard, in the hope that the two 
adversaries had reconciled their difference. 

“ Well ! ” exclaimed Ploerne, “ I have considered the 
gentleman’s explanation, I have had a further conversation 
with him, and now, having read what he has written and 
heard what he has to say, I declare that not only has he 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 29 

hitherto conducted himself as a scoundrel, but that now he 
is behaving like a poltroon.” 

Sir ! ” exclaimed Girani, darting toward Ploerne. But 
the captain was quicker than he, and his raised hand smote 
the marquis in the face. 

The four men threw themselves between the disputants ; 
all shouted at once : 

“ Ploern^, you are mad ! Gentlemen he is not conscious 
of what he is doing. Girani, leave the room.” 

Above the tumult rose Ploern^'s voice, very clear and very 
cold : 

“ I know what I am doing, gentlemen ; let there be no 
mistake. We are all men here ; therefore there is no need 
of restraint. All that is left now is to fight. Monsieur must 
desire it as ardently as I do. Our friend has weapons in his 
house — let them be whatever you select, but let there be no 
delay. I leave here to-morrow and cannot put off this af- 
fair.” 

He was as calm as when he entered the room that morn- 
ing before breakfast. Listel took him away to a corner of 
the apartment, and in a grave voice said to him r 

What arm would you prefer to use } What weapon are 
you most handy with ?” 

The choice belongs to him, let it be as he will. And 
have no fear, I am going to kill him ; I will kill him as sure 
as there is a God ! ” 

“ Look well to what you do. He is a dead shot with the 
pistol.” 

“ So much the better. He will have a chance for his life, 
and I shall not be guilty of his murder.” 

He looked at his friend with such an assured confidence 
upon his face that the latter was terrified by it. After a 
few moments spent in conversation with Girani’s seconds, 
the master of the house re-entered the room. 




30 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


“ It is all settled,” he said. “ Pistols, at twenty-five paces ; 
fire at will. Each of the combatants to have three shots.” 

“ It is well,” said the captain. 

“ The weather outside is horrible,” the major continued. 
“ If you desire to use it, I have behind my house a great 
shed which the previous occupant used for pressing his 
olives. It is fully thirty meters in length. You would be 
under shelter there.” 

“ Wherever you please, only let it be at once.” 

” He is as mad as a March hare, this Ploern^ is,” said 
Listel, in a whisper to his fellow second. “ I was afraid of 
him just now. This is going to be a serious business ; you 
had better have your instruments ready, with plenty of 
bandages and everything necessary for the care of the 
wounded.” 

“ Sacrebleu ! And supposing that one of them is killed ? ” 

” Then the undertaker will have to take care of him. But 
what a responsibility it is for us! ” 

” Everything has been done in regular form, has it not ? ” 

” Yes, as far as possible, under such strange and unpre- 
cedented circumstances.” 

“You are lending them your pistols.^” 

“ The gentlemen have them.” 

“ Neither of the combatants has ever used them, has 
he?” 

“ No. They will throw up a coin to decide who shall 
have choice of place and load the weapons. Do you attend 
to these formalities ; I will remain with Ploerne.” 

One of Girani’s seconds was waiting in the adjoining 
room. Listel went to join him. In the drawing-room the 
marquis and the captain were only separated by the distance 
between one window and the other, each of them being 
supported by a friend. The Italian was writing, seated in 
front of a small table. Bending over the paper with clouded 


A DEB 7' OF HATRED. 


31 


face, his pen ran rapidly over the sheet without pause or 
hesitation. He had a distinct idea of what he wanted to 
say. He blotted the damp sheet, folded it, inclosed it in 
an envelope, and wrote the superscription. Burel, who was 
mechanically looking on, could not make out the name. 
Then he placed the letter in a second envelope, and turn- 
ing to the young officer, said : 

“If nothing happens to me, or if I escape with a 
wound, you will return this letter to me. If I am killed 
you will take it to the Italian consulate at Toulon with- 
out opening the first envelope or looking at the name 
of the person to whom it is addressed. You promise me 
upon your honor that you will do this?” 

“ Rest easy ; I promise, upon my honor.’’ 

At the same moment Listel reappeared and said : “ Gen- 
tlemen, whenever you are ready.’’ 

The two men advanced simultaneously, Girani first, 
Ploerne following with the master of the house. After 
crossing the vestibule, a small court-yard, and a portion of 
the garden, they came to a rough structure, supported upon 
four pillars of brick, forming a spacious parallelogram. It 
was open to the air on each of its four sides, and under foot 
was a floor of beaten ground. In one corner was a pile of 
fire-wood, a few empty bottles, and some packing-cases. 
There was nothing to assist them in their aim ; the place 
could not have been better adapted for their purpose if it 
had been specially constructed for it. About them the 
snow was falling, and in the garden, that already lay 
shrouded in white, the trees were shivering beneath the 
icy blast. 

“ Have you anything to say to me ? ’’ Listel asked of 
Ploerne, conducting him to his place, after the distance had 
been carefully paced off. 

“ Nothing, except to go to my hotel if I am killed, take all 


32 


A DEBT OF ^^4 TEED. 


my papers and carry them to the prSfet maritime. He will 
sort them over, keep what belongs to the public service and 
return the rest to my family.” 

“Very well. Shake hands; here comes Burel, bringing 
you your pistol ; I will carry Girani his.” 

The captain shook his friend’s hand without manifesting 
the slightest emotion. He looked over the ground with 
perfect unconcern, and noticed that his adversary’s form 
stood out in bold relief against a clump of snow-covered 
lilacs, forming a perfect target. He took .the weapon that 
Burel handed him, raised the trigger to see if the cap was 
firmly seated on the nipple, felt it twice to assure himself 
that it was fitted to his hand, then grasping it firmly, de- 
pressed its muzzle toward the ground. 

“ I am second to your opponent, you know, old fellow,” 
Burel whispered to him, “but I would like to see you come 
out of this business with a whole skin, all the same.” 

The seconds had taken their position on one side, and in 
the intermediate space the adversaries stood facing each 
other, Girani deadly pale, Ploern6 with a dark scowl upon 
his face ; both appeared determined. Listel broke the 
silence by asking : 

“Gentlemen, are you ready?” 

“ Yes,” the combatants replied, as if with one voice. 

There was a short pause, then came the command : 

“ Fire ! — One, two, three.” 

The two pistols were raised at the same instant, the flame 
burst from that of the Italian, and the captain’s lacetl cap 
was carried ten paces away, torn from his head by the ball. 
Ploerne, bareheaded, with frowning brows and contracted 
lips, holding his arm on a level with his face, offered the 
spectacle, so full of dread to an opponent, of a man sure of 
himself, who has held his fire. For a second he remained 
as motionless as a statue, and one could have heard the 


A DEBT. OF HATRED. 33 

beating of the hearts of the witnesses. At last a report was 
heard and the marquis fell to the ground. 

The bystanders all rushed forward. Houchard waved 
them away with a motion of his hand, and throwing open 
the coat and waistcoat of the wounded man, beheld upon 
the white shirt-front a trickling, thread-like stream of blood. 
He tore away the shirt ; in the side of the wretched man 
who, already bleeding from the mouth, was drawing his 
breath with difficulty, there was a minute, violet-colored 
perforation. With eyes pleadingly fixed upon the surgeon, 
he awaited his decree. 

“ It will amount to nothing,” Houchard asserted. 

But the expression of his face belied his words so plainly 
that the Italian let fall his head with a sad smile, and said : 

“ Thanks, my friend ; all that I ask is that you will not 
unnecessarily protract my suffering.” He had a fit of 
choking, then added: “ Ah, that was a well -aimed shot — 
and there is a marquise who is a widow to-day ! ” 

The witnesses came up to Houchard to learn the result 
of his examination. 

“ The deuce ! ” muttered the doctor between his teeth. 
“You will have to carry him to the house,” he said aloud, 
“ so that I can give him proper attention. Bring me out a 
mattress and a ladder, so that we may make a litter.” 

“No ! no !” Girani said, in failing accents. “You see 
that it is all over with me. I beg you, do not torture me.” 

Houchard said to his friends : “ Then bring a mattress 

only, so that he may rest more comfortably.” 

Ploerne had turned away and stood leaning against one 
of the pillars of the shed. Listel came to him. 

“ Well ? ” the captain said in an inquiring tone. 

“ He has not an hour to live. You cannot remain here; 
let us go away.” 

Ploerne took a few steps with downcast eyes. . He took 


34 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


his cap from the ground ; a bit of the cloth had been torn 
away from it. As he was about to leave the place, however, 
Houchard stopped him. 

“ He wishes to speak to you before he dies,” said he. 
” Come, you cannot refuse him that last request.” 

The captain made no reply, but stepped forward toward 
the dying man, alone. Girani was in the death throes, ly- 
ing outstretched on the coverings, his face covered with an 
ice-cold sweat, his mouth filled with bloody froth. 

“What would you have. Monsieur?” Ploerne gravely 
said. 

“That you should give me your hand,” panted the mori- 
bund. 

“ Be it so. But first know that which I could not say to 
you before every one. Of those two young ladies, upon 
whom fall indifferently the suspicions aroused by your story, 
one is my fiancee., and I love her with all the strength of my 
heart and soul. Measure and weigh the extent of the evil 
you have done me. I beseech you, — you see it is I who am 
the suppliant, — I beseech you, leave me not in this horrible 
uncertainty. Speak, and deliver me from my anguish. 
Which of them had you in mind — Therese — or Lydie ? 
Do you wish me to tell you which of them I love ? ” 

Girani, upon whose face the dark shades of death were 
already resting, answered faintly : “ No.” 

“ Do you wish to reduce me to despair ?” Ploern6 contin- 
ued. “ Oh, have pity on me. Which of them is pure ? 
Which unworthy ? Let me not suspect them both — ^do not 
oblige me to question them and wound them. Which is it, 
Lydie or Therese ? ” 

Bending over that man, whose life was ebbing, the captain 
seemed to be the vanquished one, the one whom death had 
marked. He scrutinized the Italian’s distorted face, striv- 
ing to read there an index, a gleam of truth. Girani smiled 


A DEBT OF HATRED, 35 

sorrowfully, and in reply to Ploerne’s last supplication mur- 
mured : 

“ I must not.” 

His eyes rolled upward in their sockets, the lids distended 
to their fullest width, as if he had suddenly beheld some 
unlooked-for spectacle. He drew a deep breath and was 
motionless. He had died, carrying his secret with him. 

The (Captain arose, as pale as a dead man, and turning to 
the bystanders, said : 

“ It is all over.” 

He went up to Listel, and, giving him his ruined cap, said 
to him with dreadful calmness : 

“ Here, take my cap and give me yours. I must go and 
call on the admiral, for I wish to leave here to-morrow 
morning.” He held out his hand to his three other friends. 
“Gentlemen,” he said, “ I have not been a pleasant com- 
rade, and I have brought your day to a sad conclusion. 
Forgive me.” 

He had to pass Girani’s body to leave the shed. He 
gave another look to him whom he had slain, as if hoping 
to obtain from the dead that which the living had denied 
him. The marquis, stretched at full length, his hands 
folded on his breast as if in prayer, peaceful and not so pale 
as during his short agony, seemed to be smiling at his 
dream of everlasting rest. Ploern^ bent over him, slowly 
made the sign of the cross, and went away. 

When he reached the house, he buckled on his saber, 
donned his cloak, and, emerging upon the street, said softly 
to himself : “ That which I failed to learn thorugh him, I 
must learn from another quarter.” 


11 . 



HE family of Saint-Maurice came originally from Mar- 


1 tinique. Under Louis XVI the Chevalier de Saint- 
Maurice, then a lieutenant in the navy serving in the An- 
tilles under Admiral Suffren, was put on shore at Fort-de- 
France by his superior officer and given the command of 
the citadel which protects the city. The chevalier was a 
younger son and had been better treated by nature than by 
fortune ; he made the conquest of Mile. Hermine de G^nestas, 
and became through his marriage one of the richest proprie- 
tors of the island. Having left the service, he took up his 
abode upon his magnificent plantation of Trois-Mornes,and 
there reared a family of country gentlemen. 

Deeply imbued with philosophical ideas, — for younger 
sons in those days, being impecunious, were always some- 
what revolutionary, — M. de Saint-Maurice did not grieve 
excessively over the change in affairs that turned France up- 
side down and cost the king his life. He sent over to Ger- 
many large sums of money to his father and his elder 
brother, who bore the ills of the immigration with an ill 
grace. He did not thunder against the accession of Napo- 
leon, and never disdainfully called the great man Buona- 
parte. He fought bravely when, in 1809, the English 
attacked and took possessioh of the colony. He received 
the decoration of the Legion of Honor for his patriotic con- 
duct. 

During the time of the hostile occupation he rendered 
eminent service to his countrymen by his diplomatic con- 
duct of affairs which contributed in no small degree to make 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


37 


the yoke of the enemy easier to the people. The govern- 
ment of the Restoration found him possessed of immense pop- 
ularity, and was so extraordinarily sensible as to appoint him 
governor of the colony when it was restored to the crown of 
France. This excellent man, who had been a happy man, 
died in 1840, full of years and honors, surrounded by his 
grandchildren and universally regretted by the entire popu- 
lation, white and black. 

After M. Saint-Maurice’s death it seemed as if their good 
luck had deserted the family. The plantations were badly 
conducted and lost much of their value. One of the sons 
sold out his portion of the property and sailed away to 
Europe with the proceeds. After thirty years this family, 
that had held such a commanding position for three-fourths 
of a century, had degenerated to a condition bordering 
upon mediocrity. Of all the race there was only left at 
Martinique one female representative of the Saint-Maurice 
family, a widow, with a daughter fifteen years old, living rather 
penuriously .on an income of twenty thousand francs in a house 
at Fort-de-France. The disasters of the war of 1870 had 
passed almost unnoticed by the two females ; the island had 
not been threatened, owing to the weak condition of the 
German navy. Mme. Saint-Maurice, therefore, was antici- 
pating a tranquil and retired life under the Republic, the 
same life which she had led under the Empire, when a letter 
from Europe disconcerted, in a moment, all her plans. 

Her sister, the widow of M. Letourneur, a rich banker of 
Paris, was lying at the point of death and had written her, 
commending to her her daughter Th^rese, who would be 
left an orphan, without relatives on her father’s side. The 
good lady, who was very tender-hearted and had no par- 
ticular reason to keep her at Fort-de-France, did not 
hesitate, and two weeks later was on the ocean, accompanied 
by her daughter and her quadroon nurse-maid. 


3 ^ 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


When she reached Paris the sister, whom she had hoped 
to behold once more, was no longer living, and she had been 
received by her niece in her mourning habiliments. The 
young girl, with many a sob, had thrown herself into the 
arms of that relative who was a stranger to her, but to whom 
she was prepared to accord her love. She had tenderly 
embraced Lydie, whom she was disposed to consider as 
a sister, and so Mme. de Saint-Maurice and her daughter 
had taken up their quarters in the large and luxurious man- 
sion that Mme. Letourneur had built for herself in the 
Avenue Hoche, not far from the Champs-Elys^es. 

The next day she had received a call from Lieutenant de 
Ploerne, her nephew on the Saint-Maurice side of the 
family ; a brilliant young officer, then detailed for duty at 
the navy department. The Comte Raimond de Ploerne, 
sprung from an ancient family of Brittany, had been 
Therese Letourneur’s friend from her earliest days. The 
banker had been a good friend to Raimond when he left his 
relatives behind him in the old manor-house at Morbihan 
and came to Paris to pursue his studies, opening his doors 
to him, using his influence in his favor, and doing everything 
to facilitate his advancement, which is always such up-hill 
work at the beginning. , He had been the means of securing 
him employment under commanders of renown, whose 
capacity secured for them posts where there was chance of 
quick promotion. In this way Raimond had acquired pro- 
tectors who would keep their eye on him and see that he 
was employed in active service whenever the opportunity 
offered. 

The lieutenant had come out of the war of 1870 with an 
assured future. He had shown by his actions what he was 
capable of. This light-haired, blue-eyed young man, as 
cold as he was determined, had aW the firmness and the 
calm courage of his Breton stock. He was as much af ease 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


39 


in battle as in the bivouac, never losing his head and ex- 
ecuting orders with a precision which caused the admiral 
in the most critical moments — and the Lord knows that he 
had seen enough of them — to say ; “ Is Ploerne there ? 
Then my mind is easy.” 

When he came home from his cruises Raimond, ever 
faithful and affectionate, had always gone to see his Aunt 
Letourneur, and had been received with open arms by the 
wealthy banker. Upon the death of his parents, Letour- 
neur had given him excellent advice as to the investment 
of his fortune, and when thirty years old, the Comte de 
Ploern6, with very modest needs, possessed a yearly income 
of two hundred thousand francs. His cousin Therese, for 
whom he had a brotherly affection, was a charming young 
girl of sixteen, who had been educated by her mother in 
principles of strict piety, but who was as sweet and gentle 
as she was generous. Hers was one of those exquisite 
natures which are severe toward themselves and charitable 
toward others. At the. time of her mother’s death she had 
been seized by an attack of religious fervor which had been 
the cause to Raimond of serious anxiety. He and she 
were left alone, and he had wept for Mme. Letourneur as sin- 
cerely as if he had been her son, but Therese’s grave se- 
renity frightened him ; she declared that her mother’s fate 
seemed enviable to her, placed as she now was at the right 
hand of God ; her days were spent in religious ecstasy, 
kneeling before the altar in the church. He was very far 
from being an unbeliever ; the vast solitude of sea and sky, 
the ever-present spectacle of immensity, the sentiment of 
human Weakness, do not permit the sailor to be an infidel. 
At every instant of his life he stands too near to death not 
to believe in God. Raimond, therefore, was very firm in 
his belief, but it would Imve caused him pain to see Therese 
renounce the world. 


40 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


He had a talk with her upon this subject one day upon 
her return from the cemetery, which, ever since her mother’s 
death, she had been in the habit of visiting daily. He con- 
ducted her to the garden behind the house, and seating him- 
self beside her upon a stone bench : 

“ I feel uneasy on your account, Therese,” he said. “ You 
are not so courageous and resigned as I would like to see 
you. You seek consolation for your grief in a class of re- 
flections which, to me, do not seem the best, and of which 
I am certain that your mother, who is no more, would not 
approve. You must show more calmness and resolution ; 
you must accept the ills of life for what they are — a bitter 
trial, and one that we must submit to with patience.” 

“ Oh ! Raimond,” the young girl murmured amid her 
sobs, “ what is to become of me now that I am alone in the 
world ? Can you not understand my discouragement and 
my desire to find a moral support that will restore to me 
my peace of mind ?” 

In the first place,’you are not alone,” the sailor replied, 
“since I am here, and it is a poor acknowledgment of my 
affection to reckon it as nothing. Next, you are aware that 
your good mother, before she died, wrote to your Aunt 
Saint-Maurice, and that she has made up her mind to come 
and live with you here in France. You will have in her a 
kind and loving guardian, and her daughter, who is of 
nearly the same age as you, will be a sister and a com- 
panion to you. Does not life look more cheerful to you 
under these circumstances?” 

“ They are strangers to me, and I am afraid of them,” 
murmured Therese. “ I feel more dread than comfort at 
the prospect of their coming. What are they, what will they 
be to me, what will they wish me to do ? ” 

“ Nothing, you may be sure, but what you will wish your- 
self. You are absolute mistress of your life, my dear child. 


A DEBT OF DA TEED. 


41 


and entirely independent, since your parents have left you 
a fortune of your own.” 

“ Great as those blessings are, I would be glad to aban- 
don them all and devote myself to caring for the sick and 
needy. I feel so lost, I am so sad and weary, that I feel 
that I can be happy only at the feet of God.” 

“ My child, we are all sitting at God’s feet,” said Ploerne. 
“One need not become a Sister of Charity to be in com- 
munication with Him. You are altogether unreasonable. 
You go to extremes, with your excessive sensibility, which 
your sorrow excuses, if it does not explain. Your projects 
are chimerical and impracticable. I do not speak in this way 
in order to thwart your religious aspirations, but in order to 
guide you into a more tranquil frame of mind. At all 
events, you must wait, before coming to a decision, until 
your Aunt Saint-Maurice is here. It would be entirely 
wrong to do otherwise.” 

Therese had listened submissively to this admonition, 
uttered with fraternal candor and kindness. Tears, which 
she was unable to restrain, trickled down her cheeks and 
her hand shook convulsively. “ I will do as you wish, 
Raimond,” she presently replied. “ I feel that you are 
right, and that my mother, if she were here, would not allow 
me to take the veil. I warn you not to hope, however, that 
the coming of my aunt and Cousin Lydie will have a bene- 
ficial effect upon my mind. Everything tells me that I have 
nothing good to look for from them.” 

“ Everything?” Ploern6 asked. 

“Yes, everything,” the girl replied ; “my presentiments, 
and my dreams.” 

“Your dreams, you say ?” 

Th^r^se blushed and confusedly averted her face. “You 
will laugh at me ; I was wrong to speak of that ” 

“ Blit why,” asked the young man, “ should you start with 


42 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


this prejudice against two persons whom you do not know 
and who can only be animated by the kindest intentions 
toward you ? ” 

“ I don’t know. It is a fact ; I tell it to you just as it is, 
without trying to account for it.” 

“ Is there anything at all in your aunt’s letters, or in any- 
thing that you may have heard about her in the past, to give 
a foundation to these wild fancies? For believe me, my 
dear child, they are nothing more nor less than figments of 
your brain.” 

“ I am well aware of that, and there is no tangible foun- 
dation for them. My aunt has written me but once ; her 
letter was as kind and sensible as possible. I know nothing 
concerning either her or her daughter that should cause me 
to fear them ; and yet I do fear them, and premonitions have 
been given me from on high. You blame me for paying at- 
tention to them — and yet, what is there to show that they 
are not authentic and that I should not be acting unwisely 
in disregarding them ? ” 

“My child, hereafter you will do as you please, but now 
you are under my guardianship ; your mother intrusted you 
to my care. It is my wish that there should be no change 
in your life until the arrival of your relative. You are a 
girl of your word ; you will not bind yourself to anything. 
You will promise me that, won’t you ? ” 

“ You have my promise.” 

“ That’s good ! and now let’s go in to dinner ; I hear the 
bell.” 

He went to the house, accompanied by his girlish relative, 
and the subject of Mile. Letpurneur’s religious aspirations 
was discussed no further. The next week Mme. Saint- 
Maurice reached Paris with her daughter and the colored 
nurse-maid. Her appearance was heralded by no portent. 
The landau that brought her was not shaped like a hearse. 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


43 


and the horses were not like the horses of the apocalypse. 
Lydie threw herself into her cousin’s arms with great dem- 
onstration of affection. The comtesse tenderly embraced 
the young girl and mingled her tears with hers. Leila, it 
is true, displayed a row of sharp white teeth in the midst of 
her face of bronze, but there was so much good nature in 
her laugh that it was impossible to fear her. At the very 
moment of their meeting Therese felt that the newcomers 
would have her love, and she thought that her presentiments 
had been entirely without foundation. This was what she 
told Raimond that same evening when he came to pay his 
respects to his aunt. The two young girls were seated 
beside each other in the drawing-room, and Mme. Saint- 
Maurice had buried herself voluptuously in the depths of a 
great easy-chair. The good lady had never ceased her 
lamentations for a moment since her departure from Marti- 
nique. She received the lieutenant with smiling familiarity ; 
one would have said that she had known him ever since he 
was a baby. 

“ Welcome, nephew ; excuse me if I do not rise to re- 
ceive you,” she said, “ but for some weeks past I have not 
known what it is to stand upright. That horrid ship gave 
me such a shaking up that my head is still all in a whirl, 
and I am afraid to put my foot upon the ground for fear of 
tumbling. You are like your father, whom I have not seen 
since he was a young man of about your age. Let me 
make you acquainted with my daughter, your cousin Lydie.” 

Raimond turned toward Mile, de Saint-Maurice and 
stood as if transfixed, his eyes riveted upon her, oblivious 
to all beside, seized and mastered by her beauty. She was 
tall, with the graceful slenderness of her sixteen summers, 
but broad of shoulder and with a womanly fullness of 
form ; a luscious fruit, that had attained its precocious 
maturity beneath the blazing sky of the tropics. Her face. 


44 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


of the creamy whiteness of the camellia, was illuminated by 
two intensely black eyes, bordered by long, curving lashes 
that cast a shadow upon her cheeks. Her small mouth, 
with lips as red as blood, displayed a row of small, white 
teeth, as perfect as pearls, and the little dimple in her 
rounded chin gave her countenance a most adorably arch 
expression. She had the hands and feet of a creole, accus- 
tomed to be served and to be carried from one place to 
another, without ever raising a finger or taking a step from 
morning until night. From all her personality, however, 
there proceeded an emanation of strong, warm life, and it 
was clear that this indolent creature would be capable of 
any exertion if ever she were aroused to it by passion. 

Her cousin Therese, sitting beside her, offered as com- 
plete a contrast as could be imagined. Her blond hair was 
caught back in simple bands ; the expression of her blue 
eyes was soft and affectionate ; her maidenly form had not 
yet received its development, and her bearing was that of a 
child. There were gentleness and weakness even, where 
the other displayed her stores of rich vitality. When Lydie 
responded to the compliments that her cousin paid her with 
an embarrassment that brought a smile to her lips, the full 
and rather gravely resonant tones of her voice added to the 
young man’s confusion. That soft, caressing organ, lilte 
the deep and harmonious chords of the violoncello, seemed 
to stir him to the very deepest recesses of his soul. For all 
that, however, it was not the voice of a young girl, and its 
vibrations were altogether too ardent. 

Ploern^ reflected that it was unwise to allow himself to 
be affected in such a way. He attempted to shake off his 
besetment and resume the mastery of himself. Therese 
was speaking animatedly upon some subject, and all that he 
heard was a confused murmur of words. He was under the 
fascination of the charming creole, who smiled on him 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


45 


voluptuously with her red lips and her blazing eyes. At 
last she spoke in turn, and then he understood what was 
said to him. 

“ It seems that you never got as far as Martinique, did 
you, in your travels ? For if you had, I suppose you would 
have come to see us. But perhaps you had forgotten that 
you had a couple of relations living so far away ? " 

He explained that before the war his duties had taken him 
to the coast of Africa, in the neighborhood of Senegal and 
the Gaboon, but that the exigencies of the service had 
never taken him to the West Indies. If he had ever been in 
that quarter, he would certainly have paid them a visit. 
Oh ! yes, indeed, he would have made the voyage expressly 
if he had but known ; and as he watched her with admiring 
eyes he could not conceive a task so hard that he would not 
have attempted it for the sake of being near her, and at this 
point of the conversation his eyes became so expressive 
that Therese looked at him with wonder. Lydie, however, 
very much at home in this atmosphere of admiration, and 
nowise disconcerted by the young man’s impassioned man- 
ner, kept on smiling with her alluring lips and her magnetic- 
eyes. 

“ I want to tell you, nephew, that it was our intention to 
put up at a hotel and look for apartments in the city,” 
Mme. de Saint-Maurice said, ‘‘and that this little Therese 
here wouldn’t hear to it. She says that we must all live 
together.” 

“ She is quite right, aunt, and I shall do all I can to con- 
firm her in that way of thinking.” 

“ I was so weak as to accept. That horrid sea voyage 
has taken all my strength away — but I don’t want to be in 
any one’s way, and in a day or two we will think the ques- 
tion over and come to some definite conclusion.” 

The conclusion that Mme. de Saint-Maurice came tQ wa^ 


46 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 

to stay with her niece. In that she yielded to the urgency 
of the others rather than to her own inclination, for the pros- 
pect of superintending a great housfe was not a pleasing 
one to her indolent disposition ; but Ploerne made it clear 
to her that it would be dangerous to abandon Therese, and 
Lydie declared that it would be impossible to find a more 
comfortable dwelling-place than the Letourneur mansion. 
Therese begged and prayed that they would not desert lier, 
so that the comtesse, although she declared that she was 
sure she should freeze to death at Paris, moved in all her 
goods and chattels and formally took possession of the 
household as its director. Or rather, to speak more cor- 
rectly, she turned the direction over to her prime minister 
in petticoats, the quadroon Leila, who, from the very begin- 
ning, showed the authority that she was accustomed to ex- 
ercise in her mistress’s family. She found, however, that 
she had to deal with a band of menials whom the death of 
Mine. Letourneur and Therese’s inexperience had in- 
oculated with the delights of anarchy. In the coiirse of a 
few weeks these people had come to have no other law than 
their own sweet will, and the consequence was that the 
service of the house went on most irregularly. The colored 
woman, whom they had chaffed and joked unmercifully the' 
first night in the servant’s hall, and who had replied only 
with smiles, took it on herself to bring order out of chaos. 
She showed the whites that negroes are no less prompt than 
others to exercise tyranny when they have a chance. Every 
one' who did not bow the knee before her quickly found 
that there was no further use for him there, and received his 
dismissal without words or discussion. No one was con- 
scious of the reforms that she had introduced until he saw 
how well they worked. 

From this moment the destiny of cook, chambermaid, 
and coachman rested in her hands. No one ventured to 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


47 


dispute her will, and she who had at first been called “ the 
nigger,” was now addressed as Madatone Leila, with all 
imaginable deference. This black tyrant acknowledged 
allegiance to but one person in the world, and that was 
Lydie, whom she had suckled at her breast and whom she 
loved with an unreasoning fondness. Everything that 
Lydie said or did was right. This shrewd and intelligent 
woman received even the most unreasonable fancies of her 
whom she slavishly called “ mistress,” with a blind obedi- 
ence that almost amounted to fanaticism. She was, to all 
intents and purposes, her slave ; Lydie might have asked 
her to commit robbery or murder, and she would have 
obeyed her simply to do her pleasure. She would remain 
for hours at a time, swinging her young mistress in a ham- 
mock and singing to her the wild airs of her country, 
wrapped in contemplation of the girl’s beauty, simply that she 
might have the delight of watching her and being near her. 

She had felt a secret animosity against Therese from the 
very first days of her presence in the house. It seemed to 
her unjust that Mile. Letourneur should own the mansion 
and all the property and dominate the two Saint-Maurice ladies 
by her material situation. She said to herself, “ Lydie is 
the more beautiful, why should she not be the richer of the 
two? The other one is only fit to be her servant. Any 
one can see the difference who sees them side by side. My 
young lady is worthy of a prince ; her cousin was born to 
marry a man who works for his living.” 

There was one, however, who had gained for himself the 
quadroon’s good graces without making an effort to reach 
this end. Raimond, by giving evidence of the passionate 
admiration that Lydie had inspired in him, had won over 
to himself all Leila’s sympathies. A sort of tacit under- 
standing had sprung up between the officer and the servant. 
They worshiped the same idol with the same blind idolatry. 


48 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


Nothing seemed to have an existence for them outside the 
object of their adoration ; they were ready to sacrifice 
everything to her. Hence a sort of attached familiarity, 
like that of a dog to his master, had bound the colored 
woman to the sailor. She would show all her white teeth 
in a broad smile whenever he visited the house, would 
address him with a few affectionate words, and run off to 
look for “ mistress.” The respect that she had for the 
young man was twofold — she knew that he was rich and he 
loved Lydie ; he was the prince whose coming she had been 
awaiting. 

Already Lydie had spoken of Ploerne to Leila, dwelling, 
with cold-blooded lucidity, upon the advantages that a 
marriage with him would offer. When preparing for bed at 
night, attended by the quadroon, whom nothing in the world 
could have induced to suffer one of the maids to wait upon 
her mistress, she would laughingly relate the incidents of 
their interview : 

“ He did not tell me that he loved me, Leila,” she said, 
“and yet he had the words upon his lips, — I could read 
them there by the way he trembled, by the pallor of his face. 
Why don’t he speak out ? What is he waiting for? ” 

“ Do you want him for a husband, mistress ? ” 

“ I suppose he will answer as well as another. I don’t 
dislike him — and he is very rich ; but all these Europeans 
seem to be so cold-blooded. A creole would have spoken 
long ago — and would have gone to work in a different way 
with his love-making ; but he comes in, bows, sits down, 
talks to me as calmly as you please, says a few nice things 
to me, and don’t even always trouble himself to do that ; 
charming evenings, those are. He is very devoted to my 
mother, makes her tell him all her little troubles and annoy- 
ances, and condoles with her with a pitying smile ; he 
drinks a cup of tea, punctually at eleven o’clock he rises, 


A DEBT OF HATREJ). 


49 


bows, bestows a few polite words upon Therese and me, 
gives me a languishing look and withdraws, without having 
advanced a step in his intimacy with me. It looks as if 
matters would continue thus for the next ten years, the way 
things are going.” 

. “ You are only sixteen, mistress ; perhaps he thinks you 
are too young.” 

“Sixteen, for a creole, is the same as twenty for a Euro- 
pean girl. Just look at Therese ; she is nothing but a child, 
and yet she is of the same age as I.” 

Leila nodded her head gravely, and said, “ Therese is no 
child ; you had better look out for her. She is wide awake 
and sees and understands things ; but she is self-contained 
and cold. She will never tell you anything more than she 
means to tell.” * 

“What does that mean? explain yourself.” 

“ Watch her some time when M. de Ploerne is here. In- 
stead of letting your feeling for your gallant run away with 
you, keep your eye on your cousin, and you will learn some- 
thing that you never have suspected and that I discovered 
long ago.” 

“ Can it be that she loves Raimond ? ” Phre flashed front 
her eyes. She added, however, in an unchanged tone 
“ Poor girl ! If it is so, I will willingly cede my claim t( 
her.” She smiled a fiendish smile. “ But he — what will ^ 
have to say to that ? He loves me after his fashion, whicl 
is not the fashion that I should prefer ; but I think that ht 
does really love me.” 

“Yes, mistress, he does love you. Still, watch Therese 
One should know what she has to fear.” 

Lydie shrugged her shoulders. “ What have I to fea' 
from that baby ? You don’t know her, Leila. She has 5 
vocation for piety, and the greater the pain that she would 
experience from a sacrifice that her conscience should die- 


5 °' 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


tate to her, the more she would hasten to carry out that 
sacrifice. She is stuffed full of virtues.' I believe that vir- 
tues are the portion of all ^old-hearted beings.” 

Thus speaking, she arranged her hair, contemplating her- 
self complacently in her mirror and smiling at the gracious 
picture that was reflected there. She hummed a little air, 
forgetful, seemingly, of all that had passed between her and 
her black confidante. She was in reality thinking of it still, 
for she did not so readily lose sight of that which interested 
her ; but she masked her thoughts with an affected air of in- 
difference, even before Leila. Again she murmured, in a 
tone of haughty security, “ Poor girl ! ” then dismissed ber 
nurse and remained alone. 

The next day she observed her cousin as the quadroon 
had counseled her to do, but Therese betrayed none of her 
secrets, if she had any secrets to conceal. The gentle 
blonde had much firmness of character, and when she laid 
down a line of conduct for herself she never allowed herself 
to infringe it. From the very first she had remarked the 
impression that Lydie produced on Raimond ; not one of 
the dumb ecstasies of the sailor had escaped her notice, and 
the unlooked-for grief had caused her great sorrow. She had 
always, until that time, shown great affection for her sailor 
cousin. It had always given her pleasure to see him. She 
had expressed her thoughts to him with entire freedom, had 
shown herself to him as she was, in all the frankness and 
honesty of her nature. Never had there been a secret be- 
tween her and him. They communicated with each other 
unreservedly, and when Raimond had questioned her re- 
cently upon her intentions as regarding religion, she had 
answered him with the utmost confidence and security. To 
tell the truth, at that time, a few weeks previous to the arri- 
val of the Saint-Maurice ladies, the young girl’s heart was 
unoccupied, and she could have devoted herself to the 


A DEBT OP HATRED. 


5i 

Lord without regret, renouncing cheerfully all the delights 
of life. If she loved Raimond, it was as a matter of course, 
and so naturally that she took no account of it. 

It was when she beheld the manner in which the sailor 
looked at Lydie that Therese, for the first time, felt herself 
moved to the very depths of her being. It was when she 
came to know that she had a rival, and a preferred rival, in* 
the young man’s heart, that her jealousy was aroused and 
showed her what her sentiments really were. It caused her 
horrible suffering ; in the first place because she felt that she 
was about to lose an affection that she had hoped would be hers 
forever ; next, because it humiliated her to feel a sentiment 
of envy toward Lydie. In the eyes of this high-minded and 
generous girl, jealousy seemed a low, almost a degrading 
sentiment, and she firmly resolved that she would never 
allow it to be manifest in her. From that time she main- 
tained a strict watch over herself, and whenever Lydie and 
Raimond were together in her presence, her face became as 
impenetrable as a marble statue in her determination that it 
should betray nothing of her secret. When she was alone, or 
thought herself alone, she gave way to transports of despair, 
during which she would often be subjected to the espionage 
of Leila’s sharp eyes. 

If it had not been for the quadroon, no one would have 
suspected Therese’s love for Ploerne. The discovery of 
the nurse seemed superfluous, however, since Lydie, wrapped 
up in her splendid and unconscious egotism, paid no heed 
to her cousin's feelings, and, with the cruel serenity of an 
idol of stone, would have continued to accept Raimond’s 
silent homage even if it should drain the other’s heart dry 
of tears. In the course of events a circumstance that the 
sailor had foreseen and secretly dreaded within his mind 
for a long time, came to throw light upon the situation. 
Lieutenant de Ploern^ received orders to prepare for sea. 


52 


A DEBT OF HATRED, 


He was to report, without delay, to the commander of the 
navy yard at Toulon and sail for Tonquin. 

At that time the French expedition was laboring under 
serious difficulties. Admiral Courbet had taken command 
of the forces and was marching on Hanoi. To a soldier 
like Ploerne there should have been nothing but what was 
agreeable in this order, which was to consign him to a posi- 
tion where fighting was going on and where promotion and 
glory would be within his reach. Six months earlier Raimond 
would have been delighted with his chances ; now he was 
in love, and it was with such melancholy as a man may 
show that he prepared to obey the orders of his chief and 
leave France. That same evening he presented himself at 
the hotel in the Avenue Hoche. Contrary to his usual cus- 
tom he was in uniform. Upon entering the drawing-room, 
where all the ladies were collected, he had to encounter the 
wondering exclamations of the two young girls. 

“ How is this, in full uniform ? What does that mean ? 
Have you been at an official reception ? ” 

“ I am just from the navy department,” Ploerne replied, 
with a smile ; “ but there was no reception there ; quite the 
contrary, indeed.” 

“ What was it — business ? ” 

“ Yes, very serious business. I am to leave here to-mor- 
row.” 

“What ! You are going away ?” 

This exclamation, which escaped the lips of Lydie and 
Th^rese at the same instant, with the same depth of feeling, 
revealed an interest so similar in each case that the two 
girls blushed and looked at each other with troubled eyes. 

“ Where are they sending you ? ” asked Lydie, who was 
the first to recover from her emotion. “Are you going far 
away ? ” 

“ Very far.” 


A DEBT OF DA TEED. 


53 


“ To be gone long ? ” 

“ I shall be away a long time — perhaps forever.” 

“ There is fighting going on, then, where you are going ? ” 

“ It is not necessary that there should be fighting,” 
Ploerne said, with a melancholy smile, “ that we sailors 
should be in constant danger of our lives. There is the sea 
always ready to swallow us up, and the climates of the 
countries to which they send us are often fatal. There are 
plenty of occasions for staking our existence ; we have the 
embarrassment of the choice. Where I am going, however, 
those risks are all united — dangers of the sea, of the climate, 
and of battle. It is a post that is much desired, however ; 
the government only sends officers who can be depended on 

out there — so, you see, I shall earn promotion, or else ” 

The sailor made an expressive gesture, his face was irradi- 
ated by a hopeful light, and in a firm voice he continued : 
“ But never fear ; I shall get ahead. When I return I shall 
have four gold bands on my sleeve and shall be a captain. 
The worst part of my career will be over.” 

Mme. de Saint-Maurice, who had listened, at first with 
surprise and then with interest, to the questions and answers 
that had been rapidly exchanged, took advantage of a 
momentary pause to say : 

“ What ! my dear nephew, scarcely are we united, after 
so many toils and troubles, and now are we to be parted 
again ? We arrive, and immediately you depart ! Really, 
that is very sad news that you bring us. Tell me exactly, 
where are you going ? ” 

“I am to sail day after to-morrow for Tonquin, aunt, on 
board the transport Normandie^ in company with four other 
officers and two hundred and fifty men. We are going out 
there to fill up vacancies on the staff and among the crews. 
Our first destination is Haiphong ; there we shall probably 
find orders from the admiral that will tell us whether we are 


54 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


to join him at Hanoi or whether we are to take our places on 
the fleet. By land or by sea, and perhaps on the land as 
well as on the water, we shall have fighting enough to do, 
that I can promise you. For when they take people so far 
away from home they are not apt to be very good-natured, 
and then look out for squalls.” 

“That is a horrible profession of yours, nephew,” re- 
plied Mme. de Saint-Maurice ; “ but what I should dislike 
most about it would be the going to sea. I was so com- 
pletely upset by the voyage from Martinique that I don’t 
think I would undertake it again if my life depended on it ; 
I don’t see how any one can endure to live on board ship 
and be continually tossed about, up and down, backward 
and forward, on a collection of little frail planks. I think 
I would rather jump overboard at once and have done with 
it.” 

Raimond and the young ladies allowed the comtesse to 
finish her speech without interruption. They were standing 
by the window and conversing in low tones. Presently, as 
if by a tacit understanding, they opened the low window 
which gave access to the garden ; they seemed to be stifling 
in the salon and needed the coolness and fresh air ’of the 
evening. 

“ Look out that you don’t take cold,” the old lady ex- 
claimed, with her usual dread of fresh air. “ The nights are 
so damp here, even in July.” She rang the bell and 
directed Leila to bring shawls for Lydie and Therese. 

The young folks were already outside and walking up 
and down upon the lawn. The weather was delicious ; the 
air was filled with an odor of clematis and jasmine that 
arose from the beds of shrubbery, and walking beside the 
two girls, beneath the sky thick-set with stars, in the pale 
light of the moon, Raimond felt his heart filled with melan- 
choly. How bitter the thought that another day would not 


A DEBT OF DA TEED. 


55 


behold him at the side of those dear creatures, and that 
while they would be pacing the garden, sweet with the per- 
fume of flowers, he would be treading the deck of the ship 
that was^to carry him away toward ^le mysterious unknown, 
perhaps toward death. His firmness gave way, and with 
moist eyes and trembling voice, he said : 

“ You will think of me now and then, will you not, when 
I am so far away ? ” 

Th^rese, whose face suddenly became pale as death, 
turned her direct, frank eyes upon him : “ I shall never 

go to sleep at night, Raimond, without praying for your 
safe return,” she said. 

Lydie, in turn, lightly said : “ My dear cousin, how could 
we forget you ? ” 

Raimond’s face became clouded. He would have wished 
to hear in Lydie’s answer the grave, almost religious, tone 
that Therese had shown in her words ; but the loved one, 
she whom he desired to see palpitating with an emotion 
similar to his own, she whose sorrow should have been the 
echo of his anguish, was tranquil and apparently unmoved, 
while the friend whom he was about to leave with a simple 
farewell, by the quivering of her lips telling of tears ready 
to fall, and by that strained look that tells of the tension of 
the feelings, gave proof of the sincerity and depth of her grief. 

Raimond remarked Th^rese's agitation as contrasted with 
Lydie's indifference. He had never dreamed that the 
former might love him ; he had only the painful suspicion 
that the latter did not love him. He was possessed by 
an irresistible longing to penetrate that heart which seemed 
closed against him ; he said to himself, “ How can I go 
away and live if I do not tell her of my love and obtain 
from her the acknowledgment of hers ? Alas ! I have but 
a moment left, and it is impossible to speak to her in the 
presence of Therese.” 


56 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


He approached Lydie so eagerly ; his face expressed such 
a passionate desire to be alone with her, that Therese could 
not restrain a sob. She turned away to conceal her tears 
and, bowing her head in resignation, determined tqmake the 
sacrifice of all her love, she said : 

“ It is really cool this evening ; I think I will go in to 
aunt.” She beheld Raimond’s countenance illuminated by 
a joyful expression which was at once a comfor tand a tor- 
ture to her, and without once turning to look back, she as- 
cended the steps and returned to the salon. 

Ploerne, when left alone with Mile, de Saint-Maurice, was 
silent for a moment. Had his mind been less intent on 
what he had to say, he might have wondered why Lydie had 
not followed her cousin instead of remaining with him. 
Could she have seen Raimond’s unwillingness to go away 
without first having a serious conversation with her and was 
she facilitating that interview ? Was there a calculation 
going on inside that little head ? Had he stopped to think, 
the lieutenant might have compared the behavior of the two 
girls, and in that case the advantage would probably not 
have been on Lydie’s side ; but he saw only a graceful form, 
a pretty pair of rounded arms, two jet black eyes and lips 
that smiled on him, and beyond these marvels there was 
nothing in the world that seemed to be worthy of his ado- 
ration and respect. 

They had resumed their walk in the cool transparency of 
the night. They came to a little grove, in the center of 
which, among a bed of roses, rose a marble faun on a pedes- 
tal of stone enwreathed with honeysuckle. At the foot of 
the statue was a bench on which they seated themselves, 
and there, Raimond, summoning up his courage with a 
greater effort than when for the first time he faced a hostile 
battery, whispered softly in her ear : 

Lydie, it is a cruel grief to me to leave you. You can- 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


57 


not understand my feelings, since you do not reciprocate 
them — but believe me, they are very sad, and I know not 
where to look for comfort.” 

Lydie raised her blazing eyes and said in that low, deep 
tone that always went to Raimoud’s heart ; “ Why do you 
say that I do not share your grief ? Do you think me so 
hard of heart ? ” 

“ Oh, no ! I know that you are kind, and 1 do not believe 
that you can part without regret from a friend who is going 
so far away and for such a long time ; but that is a feeling 
that you would experience for another just as you do for 
me, and it is altogether different from the feeling that I en- 
tertain for you and would wish you to entertain for me. 
We have known each other, Lydie, but a few months, and 
yet you occupy all my thoughts ; for now that I am about 
to leave my country and all that is dear to me, I have but 
one thought, one care— and that is you. If you behold me- 
now anxious and unhappy, the reason of it is that my only 
joy was to be near you, and now we are to be parted.” 

The girl received this declaration with perfect coolness ; 
there was not a movement of the long lashes that shaded 
her handsome eyes. She was- as calm and self-possessed as 
Raimond was agitated and feverish. She replied ; 

“ Why do you go away, if it is so painful to you ? ” 

“You are a child, Lydie, and are ignorant of a soldier’s 
duties. I should be wanting in honor if I failed to obey 
when commanded to go and face the enemy; that is the 
only thing that I cannot do at your behest. 1 must go, 
therefore, and leave you here, beautiful as you are, and 
destined to meet with many admirers and receive many of- 
fers. Think of my troubled state of mind! You will be 
loved, men will tell you of their love, and you, perhaps — 
Oh, Lydie ! think what torture it will be for the absent one 
who carries with him your picture in his heart, who will live 


58 


A DEBT OF HATRED, 


only in remembrance of you, and who has no right to hope, 
for he has never told you of his love and has no word of 
promise from you.” 

“ And is that the cause of all your grief and uneasiness ? ” 
Lydie calmly said. “ You must admit, however, that I 
could not tell what was passing in your mind, unless I were 
endowed with more than human insight. You have been 
coming here almost daily now for several months, and have 
had plenty of opportunities of seeing me in private, and I 
don’t think that I have been very ^severe toward you, and 
yet you have never said a word, you have never even 
breathed a sigh. You must admit that you are a very dif- 
fident lover, and that one has no great reason to be afraid 
of you.” 

“Lydie! Lydie!” Ploerne murmured, “why will you 
laugh when you see that I am ready to weep?” 

“ What would you have me do ? I cannot very well throw 
myself into your arms and mingle my tears with yours. I 
am more reasonable. I content myself with chiding you 
for your misplaced timidity, which has made you delay 
until this late moment telling me the state of your feel- 
ings. Do not look at me in that distressed way — I do 
not mean to be hard on you. I have not told you yet 
that I reject your offer — and, comfort yourself, I do not 
intend to.” 

Raimond uttered a joyous exclamation. He seized Mile, 
de Saint-Maurice’s little white hand and held it clasped in 
his as if to take possession of all her person. Lydie felt 
the contagion of this sincere passion, which burst forth with 
the violence of a fire that has been smoldering for a long 
time, and smiled with an expression of greater gentleness. 
She said : 

“ You wish me to wait, and I will wait as long as you 
wish. I am still very young, so you will not find me greatly 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 59 

changed upon your return which, I hope, I shall not have 
to wait for long.” 

“ Ah ! to return to your side is the dearest wish of my 
heart, and one that I would gladly purchase at the price of 
my blood.” 

“ Be careful of that blood, which now belongs to me,” 
the creole interrupted in her deep voice. “ I know that you 
are brave ; do not be rash. The surest path to happiness 
is to come back to me safe and sound. I have no wish to 
be a widow before I am a wife.” 

These words were uttered in a cold and unimpassioned 
tone, but Raimond was not conscious of Lydie’s manner ; 
he heard only the joyous song of his own enraptured heart. 
They remained thus silent for a little space, then the girl 
said to her lover : 

“ We have been out here together nearly an hour; it is 
time for us to go in. Besides, you must speak to my 
mother. It is better that you should tell her of what has 
passed between us.” She had risen, and in the soft moon- 
light smiled upon her frend. She was so beautiful as she 
stood there that he took her in his arms and pressed her to 
his heart. She made no resistance, and, with her head 
resting on his shoulder, continued to gaze on him with her 
pure and radiant orbs. Bending to Lydie’s forehead, which 
shone white under her black tresses, Raimond gave her the 
first chaste, delicious kiss. It seemed to him that his frame 
was traversed by tongues of flame ; and trembling, beside 
himself with happiness, he returned with her- to the salon, 
where Therese and Mme. de Saint-Maurice were awaiting 
them. 

A gentle slumber had fallen upen that good lady’s eye- 
lids, and Mile. Letourneur, seated at her side, was buried 
in reflection. While she was sitting there, Raimond and 
Lydie, in the solitude of the garden, were telling each other 


6o 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


of their mutual love. Her heart had told her that they had 
confidences to impart to each other, and what confidence 
was there that could bring more sorrow to Therese’s gentle 
heart than that which Raimond was making to I^ydie And 
yet she had done all that lay in her power to facilitate their 
understanding ; but had the poor child shown so much hero- 
ism, after all, by withdrawing from the garden ? She had 
had an instinctive feeling that if she had not withdrawn, 
Raimond, in the trouble that he was in at parting from the 
object of his love, would have spoken in her presence. Yes, 
he would have spoken ; nothing could have stopped him, 
after keeping his feelings in subjection so long as he had. 
She had fled that she might not have to listen to his con- 
fession. 

And now, sitting there in the in the peaceful lamp- 
light, beside her slumbering aunt, who was unconscious of 
what was going on so near her, her eyes fixed on vacancy 
and her head bowed upon her breast, she abandoned her- 
self to her gloomy thoughts. She sighed, and felt her heart 
sink within her. Was not that which had been prefigured 
to her in her dreams already half accomplished ? Was she 
not already beggared of Raimond’s love, and was not her 
part of happiness already taken from her ? Would they 
rob her of her fortune, too? What mattered it ? Should 
she attempt to defend it? Would she not gladly give all 
that fortune to win back the heart of him whom she loved 
and who did not suspect that love ? 

A thought, however, arose in her mind which restored to 
her a momentary hope. Suppose Lydie should not listen to 
Raimond’s protestations, suppose he should not find favor 
in her eyes ? The cloud that had lifted for a moment setr 
tied down again thicker and blacker than before. How 
could she imagine for a moment that Raimond could be dis- 
agreeable in Lydie’s sight ? What woman was there so be- 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


6i 


reft of reason as to spurn the love of such a man when he 
offered it upon his bended knee ? No ! it was all over, and 
all that was left for poor Therese was to weep and suffer. 

In the midst of her disordered thoughts the garden-door 
opened and Lydie and Raimond entered the room, holding 
each other by the hand. Mine, de Saint-Maurice gave a 
start and awoke. Therese preserved a breathless silence, 
scarcely able to discern things in the room. The radiant 
look on Ploerne’s face had told her what her sentence was. 
Lydie stepped forward to her mother, and pointing to the 
young man, who was smiling with an enraptured air, 
“ Mamma,” she simply said, “ Raimond has just now told 
me that he loves me, and we are engaged.” 

Mme. de Saint-Maurice clapped her little hands together 
joyfully and exclaimed : “ My dear nephew, I am going to 
have you for a son ? It is impossible for me to love you 
more than I do already. But it occurs to me, my dear 
children, that he is going away. What are we to do about 
that?” 

“ We will wait for him to come back, mamma ; I shall 
be growing a little older in the mean time. Far or near, he 
will love me all the same ; and when he comes back, it will 
be never to go away again. Is that not so, Raimond ? ” 

“ Yes, indeed ! I give you my word to that. • I will be 
yours entirely.” 

“ If you are satisfied to have it so, my children, all is 
well. There is nothing easier in the world than waiting ; 
all things will come right in the future. But come here, 
nephew, and let me give you a kiss. You have engaged 
yourself, it seems to me, my dear boy, in American style, 
— you have concluded the business all by yourself, for I had 
not the least suspicion of it. And you, Therese, is it pos- 
sible that you knew nothing of the secret ? ” 

Tears came to the young girl’s eyes, but as she was in 


62 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


shadow they were not noticed. “ No, Aunt,” she replied, in 
a pretty firm voice. “ Like you, this is the first that I have 
heard of the matter.” She made a supreme effort and 
added, “ I am very glad to hear of Lydie’s and Raimond’s 
happiness.” 

The hard, black eyes of the creole were bent on Therese’s 
pale face, but were unable to discover there a trace of the 
anguish that was wringing her heart. She came to her 
cousin, and embracing her effusively, said : “ I owe it to you 
that I know Raimond and am loved by him. Believe me, I 
shall never forget it.” 

Ploerne gave her his hand : “ I leave her to your care,” 
he said. “ Love her, guard her, watch over her. It is the 
most precious treasure that I have in life.” 

Therese came forward into the light. She feared no 
longer to be seen. The thought that she had a duty to 
perform, had cleansed her heart of all its jealousy, and she 
said with fervor, “ I promise you, Raimond, that I will, and 
you may rely upon me.” 

“ Thanks ! ” 

Raimond bade them good- night and took his departure. 
The next day he came to say good-by, and that night he 
took the Marseilles express, leaving behind him the two 
girls — Lydie entirely calm and Therese deeply affected. 

The months succeeding the sailor’s departure passed 
monotonously. Mile. Letourneur and the Saint-Maurice 
ladies were still in mourning, and had no desire to emerge 
from their retirement. At the approach of winter, how- 
ever, Lydie’s mother began to complain bitterly of the cold. 
She had always been accustomed to the mild temperature 
of her island home, and the bleak east winds made her 
shiver. 

“ We shall freeze to death in this Paris of yours,” said 
Mme. de Saint-Maurice. “ It is as if we had the north pole 


A DEBT OF HATTED. 63 

in the back yard. The thermometer was fourteen this 
morning ; what must we look for when winter comes ? ” 

“My dear aunt, we will make a good fire for you.” 

“ I have been told that sometimes you have frost several 
days in succession.” 

“ Then we can go skating.” 

“ As they do in Lapland ! Much obliged ! Ah ! why 
could I not have brought with me the sun of Martinique 
and the gentle breezes of our savannahs ? ” 

“ If you are uncomfortable at Paris, aunt, we will go 
away somewhere. You know there is nothing to keep us 
here.” 

“ Where can we expect to find a warmer climate, my dear, 
unless we cross the sea ? And as to going on board a ship 
again, I will never, never do it. I would rather suffer with 
the cold.” 

“ We can find a great difference in temperature without 
going so far as Sicily, Malta, or Algeria. We might go to 
some of the places along the coast, near the Italian frontier. 
There is a great change in climate after leaving Cannes.” 

“ Oh ! gracious, let’s stay here ; what difference does it 
make whether we freeze at Paris or at Cannes ? If we have 
got to suffer, we may as well suffer in your mother’s house.” 

“ You will not be taking me from my mother’s house, my 
dear aunt. I have a villa that mamma built on the sea- 
shore, between Nice and Monaco, in a little sheltered, sunny 
nook that she used to resort to before she took to her bed. 
So, you see that I shall have something to remind me of her 
at Beaulieu.” 

“ No, no, my child,” wailed Mme. de Saint-Maurice ; 
“ it is such a terrible affair to have to move. Think of all the 
trunks that are just emptied and will have to be packed 
again. We may as well stay here : one place is as good as 
another to die in.” 


64 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


The good lady belonged to that category who are always 
dying, never failing, however, to take their regular allow- 
ance of food and sleep, and deafening all about them by 
their everlasting lamentations. She was honest about it, 
too, and sincerely believed that she was enduring all the 
suffering that she complained of. She had made up her 
mind to stay where she was, but not to forsake her queru- 
lousness. Six weeks afterward her niece and daughter, by 
dint of mild violence, succeeded in getting her to Beaulieu, 
and there, among the flowers and on the banks of the 
blue sea, in the delicious atmosphere of the place, the creole 
confessed that life might yet have some pleasant hours in 
store for her. 

As to Lydie, she experienced a sort of intoxication upon 
meeting again with the flowers and plants that reminded 
her of her native land. Everything recalled to her the 
enchanted isle where she had spent her childhood : the 
orange groves, the palms, the myrtles, and the cacti, the 
flora of the Orient, basking in the golden sunlight ; the 
gentle sound of the silvery sea breaking in rippling waves 
upon the sandy beach ; the perfumed breezes, heavy with 
the warm emanations of the earth ; the horizon of the coast, 
bathed in blue and purple light. She was happy, she lived 
the life of an animal. She thought but seldom of her 
fiand j when she did it was Therese who brought him to 
her mind. Then she would let fall some meaningless, 
commonplace expressions : “ Where is he ? I wonder what 
he is doing ? When do you suppose he will return ? ” And 
that was all. 

Where he was and what he was doing they had learned 
by letters that had come to them when he had been two 
months away. He was with the squadron, cruising off the 
coast in frightful weather. As to the time of his return, 
that was a question that no one could answer ; not before 


A DEBT OF I/A TEED, 


\ 


65 


two years at the very earliest — unless — but this “ unless 
made Th^rese shudder and set Lydie clamoring, for it 
meant a return on sick-leave, and if the officer came 
back to France, it would be because he was seriously ill or 
severely wounded. Therese would rather that he should 
remain in China than come home on such terms. In the 
first place he could not marry Lydie out there. With all 
her resignation. Mile. Letourneur could never think of the 
future that was promised her by this marriage without a 
sinking of the heart. Raimond, five thousand miles away, 
was parted from her, but he was parted from his fiancee as 
well. His absence was a respite, and in the mean time it 
was possible for her to live. 

The first six months were spent in almost complete re- 
tirement. The point of the coast where the villa was situ- 
ated had few attractions for tourists. Sometimes a brake or 
a few carriages would come down as far as Saint-Hospice, 
but they never went beyond that point, and the solitude of 
the three women was hardly disturbed by the silvery sound 
of bells on the Villefranche road, or by the infrequent sight- 
seers climbing up to the little convent and the ruined tower, 
remains of the fortifications of the Barbary pirates in the 
days when they used to infest those seas. 

Upon their return to Paris, the Saint-Maurice ladies took 
up their abode in the Letourneur mansion. A year of life 
in common had permitted the three women to become well 
acquainted with one another. ■ Therese appreciated her 
aunt’s calm kindness and serenity of disposition. This ex- 
cellent woman had but one single fault, that of thinking 
that she was always at the point of death ; but in the twelve 
months that they had been acquainted she had not caused 
her niece a care or an anxiety and had gained her heart. 

Lydie, at the same time fantastic and imperious, tender 
and headstrong, had reduced gentle Therese to a condition 


66 


A DEBT OF HATTED. 


of servitude. Little by little the young girl had suffered 
the pretty brunette to assume the airs and behavior of a 
spoiled child. She had bowed to her tyranny even as Mme. 
de Saint-Maurice and Leila had done before her. It was a 
very quiet and beguiling tyranny, it is true, for this charm- 
ing girl, who seemed born to bewitch every one who came 
near her, had a way with her that excused everything that 
she did, however provoking it might be. 

After their retirement had lasted a year and Therese’s 
period of mourning was ended, Mile, de Saint-Maurice had 
displayed an appetite for pleasure that alarmed her cousin. 
At the time of her mother’s death the latter had not made 
her appearance in society, and with the exception of a few 
old friends of the family, such as her godfather and father’s 
former partner, Samuel Bernheimer, she knew but few peo- 
ple. She was frightened, therefore, when Lydie showed a 
desire to infuse a little gayety into the life that she had been 
leading since her arrival in France. Therese was still very 
melancholy, and it was hard for her to understand how 
Raimond’s Jia7ic^e^ in the absence of him whom she pro- 
fessed to love, could think of giving herself any enjoyment. 
Upon this point she stood out more resolutely than upon the 
others, but when Lydie once made up her mind to a thing 
she was in earnest about it, and with great address she ap- 
plied herself to the assault of what she called Therese’s 
prudery. 

She was a stranger to the theater and was extremely de- 
sirous to visit the opera. For twenty years Mme. Letour- 
neur had had a box at her disposal once a week. Upon the 
death of her husband she had given up her day to some 
friends of hers, but with the stipulation that she or her 
daughter should have it back again whenever they desired 
it. Lydie was so urgent that Therese made a demand for 
the box. She placed it at the disposal of her aunt, upon 


A DEB 7' OF HATRED. 


67 


the condition that she herself should not be obliged to a(^- 
company them. Mile, de Saint-Maurice’s delight the first 
evening, when attired in her best, she ihade ready to go 
and hear “ Faust,” afforded her cousin keen satisfaction. 
She smiled at Lydie’s pleasure, admired her gown, and 
adorned her with her own jewels. She had the sensations 
of a mother in the presence of a spoiled child. Her aunt, 
alleging that she had a raging headache, had declared up 
to the last moment that she was not fit to go out that night, 
but having made a substantial dinner, she climbed, in a 
dying condition, as she said, to her seat in the carriage and 
drove off with her daughter. Therese, abandoned to her- 
self, took refuge in her bedroom, and devoted the evening 
to thoughts of him who was far away. 

A young girl as handsome as Lydie could not remain for 
three hours leaning upon the velvet-covered rail of a front 
row box of the opera without attracting the attention of a 
house to whom all the faces in the hall were familiar. From 
the first entr'acte every lorgnette in the orchestra had been 
turned upon the pretty face that no one knew. On every 
side had been heard the question, “ Who is she ? ” No one 
had been able to answer, and, as a natural consequence, 
there had been a sensation among all those blasi men who 
were momentarily aroused from their torpid state by Lydie’s 
appearance. The ouvreuse was questioned ; she could 
give no information ; she knew nothing about the person. 
The coupon was in the name of Letourneur, and the two 
ladies who were in box 23 spoke French with a very faint 
foreign accent. Samuel Bernheimer, who had been in that 
box more than a hundred times when it stood in his part- 
ner’s name, was assailed by his friends of the Jockey Club 
to furnish them with information then and there, but he 
had to give it up. 

“ I will try and see Therese Letourneur, my god-daughter, 


68 


A DEBT OF 1/ A TEED. 


to-morrow, and ask her who were in the box,” was all that 
he could say. “You will probably learn to-morrow at the 
club what you desire to learn to-night at the theater. That’s 
the best I can do for you.” 

With all Mile, de Saint-Maurice’s inexperience, she could 
not fail to notice the conversation in the orchestra and the 
stir of curiosity among the boxes. She felt that she was 
the object of attention, and it caused her heart to throb 
with gratification. So, then, her first appearance in that 
Parisian world that was so full of mystery for her had been 
a success. She felt the tide of admiration rising and en- 
veloping her like a caress, but she remained impassive, as if 
equipped, like one of her older sisters in the world, with 
that disdainful indifference which stands them in stead as 
a buckler in the skirmishes of fashionable life. Her only 
thought during the inspired melody of the garden'scene 
was not to appear countrified. She kept close watch upon 
her attitudes and scrutinized the appearance and manners 
of other women, selecting the most brilliant and most 
numerously attended ones as her models. Not once did 
the heart of the sixteen-year-old girl open to the delights 
that a masterpiece of art should inspire ; her pride alone 
stirred within her, but it stirred with tremendous violence. 

She looked coldly upon that public which stood for the 
very quintessence of Parisian society, and said to herself : 
“I shall rule over all these people. Men and women shall 
know my power.” How did she know that she was ever to 
have power of any kind ? She knew nothing of it, nor had 
she even given herself the trouble to seek for it, but she 
had the certain assurance within her that it would come to 
her. Had a god spoken in her ear and revealed to her her 
destiny, she could not have felt more certain of her future. 
Her mother, seated in the corner of the box and soothed 
by the strains of music, noticed nothing and did not for a 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


69 


moment suppose that instead of the innocent seraph whom 
she had brought with her to the opera, she would take home 
a very Lucifer in pride. 

At eleven o’clock the next day, within the precincts of 
the Jockey Club, Bernheimer communicated the result of 
his investigations to the crowd that surrounded him. 

“ The young beauty who wrought such havoc among you 
is a creole, recently arrived at Paris. Her name is Mile. 
Lydie de Saint-Maurice. She comes of excellent stock, 
and is without fortune.” 

“ So much the better,” said Maurice de Roquiere, a good- 
looking blonde of twenty-five, who had made a good-sized 
hole in his fortune in two years. “ That is all the better for 
her admirers.” 

“You need found no hopes on that, my friend,” said 
Samuel. “ She is living for the present under the guard of 
all her family, and as for the future, she is betrothed to her 
cousin, the Comte de Ploerne.” 

“ The naval officer ? ” 

“ Yes. The lieutenant, who is out in Tonquin or some- 
where else, the devil knows where.” 

“ I will take pains to make friends with him as soon as 
he comes back,” the young man declared. “ In the mean- 
time, Bernheimer, I call on you to present me to the Saint- 
Maurice ladies the first time that they appear on the hori- 
zon.” 

“ I can do that easily enough ; it will be your lookout to 
get out of the business afterward.** 

“ You may rely on me for that.” 

The following week they played the “ Huguenots,” but 
Lydie did not promise herself the delight of listening to 
Meyerbeer’s wondrous score. There were far superior at- 
tractions for her now at the opera than mere instruments 
and voices ; there were the flattering murmurs that were 


70 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


elicited by her presence, the ardent glances that were at- 
tracted by her beauty. The only harmony that she was 
conscious of was the concert of admiration in which there 
was’not a single discordant note, for even the women were 
disarmed in presence of Lydie, in whom they failed to see a 
rival, young as she was. 

This time she was no longer a stranger, and curiosity had 
ceased to be platonic. At the first entr'acte Samuel Bern- 
heimer came into the box, and to the satisfaction of the 
Saint-Maurice ladies gave them a detailed description of 
the eminent personages among the audience. 

“ You are exciting an immense amount of interest,” he 
said to the comtesse, “ and the beauty of mademoiselle your 
daughter seems likely to raise a riot in the house. If I 
were to yield to all the importunities that I am pestered 
with, I should bring every man in the orchestra here to 
your box.” 

“ I hope you won’t do anything of the kind,” objected 
Mme. de Saint-Maurice. “ We do not wish to make any 
acquaintances. You know how retired we are living with 
my niece ; until she decides to receive company I must 
request you to make no introductions.” 

“ I will beg you, however, to make an exception in favor 
of a young friend of mine whom I have, promised to bring 
to your box. He is a very nice young fellow ; you will 
like him, and he won’t be in your way.” 

“ Bring him, then, if you have promised ; but he need 
not expect to be very warmly welcomed by us.” 

At the following entr'acte the Marquis de Roquiere was 
introduced to Mile, de Saint-Maurice and her mother. He 
had promised himself much pleasure from the acquaintance, 
but was disappointed. He found himself in presence of 
two women who were extremely polite and unaffected, but 
very cold, and who did not receive encouragingly his feeble 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 71 

attempts at badinage. Though the young man was very 
“ taking,” he had to confess that it would not be an easy 
matter to gain the comtesse’s intimacy. He indemnified 
himself by admiring the daughter, and was enabled to 
affirm to his friends at the club that the pretty creole was 
even more charming when beheld close at hand than at a 
distance — only, as he had failed to elicit anything more 
than yes and no from her, he assured his friends that she 
was rather stupid. As for him, he had appeared to Lydie 
very insignificant and not any too well bred, and on those 
occasions when she chanced to meet him, she greeted him 
with looks of supreme indifference. 

After these occurrences came summer, and the ladies 
went to Deauville to pass three months with Therese. 
Autumn brought them back to Paris, and Mine, de Saint- 
Maurice commencing to shiver with the first leaves that fell 
from the trees, the villa at Beaulieu again beheld its former 
occupants at its doors, and there Mile. Letourneur found 
peace and comfort. 

The life that she and her relations had been leading for 
the last six months had not been a pleasant one for the 
young girl. For all her goodness, and as accommodating 
as they had shown themselves to be, there had been jars 
caused by the dissimilarity of their tastes and the incon- 
gruity in their way of living. They, on the one hand, 
mingling, however little, with the activities of fashionable 
life, she persisting in deep seclusion, it was impossible that 
there should not be difficulties. Therese had done what 
she could to smooth them over by sacrificing her preferences 
to those of her guests, but it had pained her to be abandoned 
by them for the sake of what she looked upon as trifling 
pleasures. 

At Beaulieu they were all agreed in their desire to live 
tranquilly, and this afforded Mile. Letourneur much satis- 


72 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


faction. For several weeks the three women did not leave 
their grounds. One day, however, when mention had been 
made in conversation of Monaco and the chateau, Therese 
had of her own accord proposed that they should go and 
visit it. It would afford them an opportunity for a pleasant 
and not too long drive. The Saint-Maurice ladies had 
accepted the invitation, and it was that afternoon, in the 
spacious halls of the prince’s palace, that Lydie for the first 
time met the Marquis Girani. 

At first he made no impression on her. She saw that he 
was following her and casting ardent looks in her direction, 
but she had been accustomed for some time to perform- 
ances of that sort, so she passed on her way without notic- 
ing him. It was not until their second encounter, when 
she was returning with Leila from gathering mimosas along 
the roadside, that she took a fancy to him. He was one of 
the handsomest young men that she had seen yet, and his ap- 
pearance reminded her of the gallants of her country. He 
had their clear, warm pallor, their bright and curling black 
hair, their piercing eyes, and in all his personality there was 
the aristocratic languor of the man whose life is devoted to 
idleness and pleasure. She thought much of him and of his 
perfections, and the remembrance of the handsome Italian 
lighted a sudden blaze in her heart that was quite ready 
for a conflagration. Lydie was conscious of feelings of 
which she had not suspected the existence. Raimond’s 
calm and tender sincerity had left her almost indifferent ; 
the passage of a brown, pale face among her dreams was 
sufficient to play the mischief with her imagination. The 
next day she did not leave the house, but she surveyed oc- 
currences from her concealment beneath the verdure of a 
terrace, and beheld her admirer wandering about the villa. 
Her heart was gladdened by a sensation of joy ; it seemed 
that she occupied his thoughts as much as he interested her. 


A DEB T OF //A TEED. 73 

She was unable to keep her secret to herself, and that 
evening, as she was going to bed, imparted it to Leila. 

“The handsome stranger that we saw upon the Saint- 
Hospice road has returned ; did you know it, nurse ? " 

The quadroon turned her dark eyes upon her mistress. 
“ How did you come to know it ?” 

“ I saw him just now from the small terrace. He walked 
about for a long time in the hope to catch a glimpse of me ; 
then he went and sat down among the rocks and waited 
there until six o’clock. Then he went away, thinking that I 
would not come out.” 

“You must not pay any attention to him, mistress,” said 
Leila. 

“ Oh, I only amuse myself by watching his perform- 
ances. What harm can there be in that ? I don’t even 
know who he is.” 

“ I can find out for you, if you like,” said the colored 
woman. 

“ Yes, do ! He must come from Monte Carlo.” 

The next day the lover did not put in an appearance and 
the girl was dissatisfied ; she was peevish and distraught 
all day long. When undressing her at night, the nurse said 
to her : 

“ You did not see anything of the stranger to-day, mis- 
tress } ” 

“ How did you know that ? ” Lydie asked, in astonish- 
ment. 

“ I met him on the Saint-Hospice road, and he spoke to 
me.” 

“ He dared to do that 1 ” 

“ Oh, a poor slave like Leila ! That don’t count for 
anything. He wanted to know who you are and where you 
came from, for he guessed that you were not of European 
birth.” 


74 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


“ And what did you say to him? ” 

“ That he must go away and never come back here. I 
told him that you would not come out of the house as long 
as he kept roaming about the grounds.” 

“ Well, what then ? ” 

“ Then he asked for permission to write to you. I 

answered that he must be crazy. He went on talking, 

talking for ever so long, and kept swearing that he loved 
you fit to die of it. At last he made up his mind to go, 
saying that he must talk of you to some one and that he 
would write a letter to me if he were not allowed to write 
to any one else.” The colored woman began to laugh. 
“ What shall I do with a letter when I don’t even know 
how to read ? Bah ! I’ll throw it into the sea.” 

Lydie said no more. She was very thoughtful, and 

when the clock struck midnight she was still seated in her 
easy-chair at the foot of her bed, with eyes fixed dreamily 
upon space. 

The Italian wrote his letter, even as he had said he would 
do, and Lydie read it. Through its means she learned 
that the name of her admirer was Emilio Girani, and that he 
was a marquis ; but the girl was not dazzled by the title. 
He was the incarnation of a poetic dream, sighing among 
shadows and adoring her from afar off ; he was the hero of 
a romance that she opened merely to turn and glance at a 
few of its leaves, promising herself to close the book at 
once should it become too ardent. 

One day as she was sitting with an open book upon her 
lap, indulging herself with building castles in the air, a 
rose, thrown from the road, fell at her feet. She raised 
her eyes and there, three steps away and separated from 
her only by the low wall, she beheld Girani. She blushed 
with an expression of displeasure, and rose to go away 
He clasped his hands, called up a supplicating expression 


A DEB 7' OF //A TEED. 


75 


to his face, and murmured in a low voice : Stay ! I will 
go away.” 

He remained for more than a minute, however, with his 
clasped hands raised before him and a look of ecstasy upon 
his face, like a faithful believer in prayer before the 
Madonna, then bowed almost to the ground and withdrew. 

For a week or so the performance continued in this man- 
ner without much variation. To avoid interruption, Lydie 
had taken the precaution to post Leila as a sentinel at the 
end of the winding path which led to the terrace. In that 
way she was free, and at the same time guarded from pry- 
ing eyes ; she had but to utter a cry and the quadroon 
would be at her side. 

At the end of the week there came a heavy storm, and 
the rain, from early morning, poured down in incessant tor- 
rents, making it impossible for her to Jeave the house. At 
sunset the wind shifted and in a moment the sky was clear. 
The last black clouds took their swift flight and disappeared 
like a fleet of phantom ships upon the sea, and behind the 
hills which indent the shore the pale disc of the moon ap- 
peared and showed her gentle light. There was a soft 
breeze blowing, and the vegetation exhaled sweet odors 
after the baptism that it had received during the day. Ly- 
die went down to the garden for a breath of the balmy 
air. 

After having been imprisoned in the house all day it was 
a pleasure to her to walk upon the turf. She had no 
thought of directing her steps toward her place of observa- 
tion ; she did not suppose that there could be any one there 
at that time of day. After walking aimlessly for a quarter 
of an hour, however, chance brought her to the spot. It 
was quite dark by this time, and the stars were beginning 
to blaze in the sky. In the distance the light of the lamps in 
the salon shone like a light-house among the trees. Lydie as- 


76 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


cended the three steps that conducted to the terrace and 
advanced beneath the jasmine and clematis, seeing objects 
dimly before her in the half-light. Her look was attracted 
by a low sound beneath her, and at the foot of the wall, in 
the road, she beheld a dark form. At the same instant she 
heard Girani’s voice, murmuring : 

Are you alone ? Oh, how glad I am to see you once 
again ! ” 

She made no answer, but the Italian was already upon 
the great rock which served as his usual standing place, and 
now clutched the balustrade and raised himself to the stone 
coping of the wall. Lydie cried : 

“ I will not allow you to come here ! ” 

But it was too late for her to say whether he should come 
or not. Scaling the low wall with a single vigorous leap, he 
was at her side. For the first time they were together, 
alone, with nothing between them, and the shades of night 
were around them. She saw only his eyes blazing in his 
pale face. He held out his arms to her. She made a 
movement as if to repel him, she tried to fly, and a moment 
later he was holding her pressed to his heart. 


III. 


T he day succeeding that terrible day when he had gone 
forth from the cottage on the Seyne road, leaving be- 
hind him the corpse of a man who had fallen by his hand, 
Raimond de Ploerne, who had concluded his official busi- 
ness and was now a free man, took the train which leaves 
Toulon at twelve minutes of one for Nice, where he would 
arrive about five o’clock. It was not his intention to go 
directly to Beaulieu ; he feared that some one would recog- 
nize him and cause him to lose the advantage that he 
expected to derive from his unexpected appearance among 
those people whose secret he desired to surprise. 

For twenty-four hours he had not known a moment of 
tranquillity. He had been ceaselessly turning over and 
over in his mind the problem that had been submitted to 
him by the Italian, and that he had been unable to solve. 
Like another QEdipus, he was proceeding along the road of 
Thebes in quest of the Sphinx, to wrest from her the solu- 
tion of the riddle. But how was he to attain his end ? 

In his harassed mind were floating snatches and frag- 
ments of the story that he had heard among shouts of 
laughter and libertine talk, and it seemed to him that he 
could still hear Girani’s high-pitched voice, saying : 
“ She came out at night upon the little terrace, there, in the 
midst of flowers, where we met and where we loved. There 
she awaited me yesterday, and it is there that she will be 
waiting for me to-morrow.” 

With madness in his mind, he pictured to himself Girani 
mounting to the terrace and a woman hastening to meet 


77 


78 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


him. A woman ! But which of them was it ? All that he 
could distinguish was a white dress ; he could only descry the 
arms extended to receive the longed-for lover. He could 
hear only the sound of their kisses ; the face and form re- 
mained vague and undecipherable, the whispering voice was 
unknown. Which was it? the blonde or the brunette? 
Therese or Lydie ? The sister or the fianceel 

Then he beheld the Italian lying in his death agony, with 
the mocking smile upon his lips that avenged him on his 
slayer. Why could he not bring him back again to life, to 
entreat him, to threaten him, to strike him again if he per- 
sisted in his silence ? The wretch, the scoundrel, a hundred 
times more detestable still for his tardy discretion than for 
his amorous crime ! And the sailor was ready to cry aloud 
with anguish in the unendurable doubt that beset him. 

Never had he suffered thus. Neither the grief of leave- 
taking when he had parted from the object of his love, nor 
the weary days of absence in the east, were to be compared 
to the horror of this return, which he had been looking for- 
ward to with such glad anticipation. Twenty times this 
hope came to his mind, only to be rejected as soon as 
formed, that the culprit was not Lydie, and still the image 
of the woman with the veiled face passed before his eyes 
mysteriously and he could not divine her name. And was 
it not better that he should not know it? This ignorance 
was a respite for him. When there should no longer be 
any doubt, when the veil should be stripped away and every- 
thing should be made clear, would not that be the time 
when he would really be deserving of pity? And yet he 
looked forward ’ with eagerness to the moment when the 
horrible dilemma should cease. It seemed to him as if his 
six-hour journey would never end. The places that he had 
known and loved so well in other days, Saint-Raphael, An- 
tibes, Cannes — he passed them by without giving them a 


A DF.BT OF HA'FRFD. 


79 


glance. He heaved a deep sigh of satisfaction as he leaped 
down upon the platform at Nice. He left his baggage at 
the station, took a closed carriage, and ordered the driver 
to take him to Villefranche. His plan was a very simple 
one. 

He would leave his conveyance before coming to Beaulieu 
and conceal himself in a tavern until it began to grow dark ; 
then would make his way to Saint-Hospice on foot, and slip- 
ping along by-paths in the shadow of the trees, would come 
to the low wall that crowned the terrace. There was the 
place of rendezvous, there was where the woman was to ap- 
pear. In place of the lover whom she hoped to meet, he 
would be there to receive her, and there, in that spot, in a 
moment’s space, he would be muster of the secret that he 
wished to know. No denial would be possible, there would 
be no excuse to offer ; the presence of the culprit there 
would itself be proof of her guilt. The trap appeared to 
him to be skillfully laid and he experienced a keen feeling 
of satisfaction. At this moment his carriage was descend- 
ing the little declivity that leads to Beaulieu ; he directed 
the driver to stop, paid and discharged him. The road was 
deserted. The train bringing back the gamblers from Monte 
Carlo to Nice in time for dinner was just entering the tun- 
nel with a shrill whistle from the locomotive and puffing 
through the cut. Then a sudden silence descended and 
Raimond heard nothing but the sound of his own steps 
upon the path. He entered Beaulieu, and after looking 
round a bit came upon a small inn, in the rear of which was 
an arbor. He stationed himself there, well out of eye-shot 
from the by-passers, and lighting a cigar to pass away the 
time, disposed himself to wait. 

The last interview that had taken place between Lydie 
and Girani had occurred on the day preceding that when he 
had come to keep his promise and breakfast at Major 


8o 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


Houchard’s cottage in company with his friends, the officers 
of the fleet. For several weeks past the two lovers had 
ceased to be contented with a few moments of conversation 
in the garden ; the weather had come off stormy and the 
bleak winds would have interfered with their rendezvous. 
A small pavilion, that had formerly served Mile. Letourneur 
as a place of retirement during the heat of the day and to 
which no one ever resorted now, offered them a convenient 
shelter. If there was no reason to prevent Girani’s coming, 
Lydie would go and await him in the pavilion, and the quad- 
roon, an accomplice blinded by her unreasoning affection 
for her mistress, would go and bring the Italian and then 
would stand guard that no one might come and surprise 
them. But who was there to surprise them? Who was 
there in that peaceful house who would be likely to suspect 
wrong doing ? Surely not Mme. de Saint-Maurice, always 
occupied as she was with her ailments, nor candid, inno- 
cent Therese. -It followed, therefore, that they were per- 
fectly safe, and, barring some great imprudence or some un- 
lucky chance, they might be certain of impunity. And yet 
this unlucky chance supervened and procured the unravel- 
ing of the mystery. 

One night Therese had retired to her room, and after 
working for a while made up her mind, instead of going to 
bed, to read. She remembered that she had left the book 
that she had in hand upon a table in the drawing-room. It 
had just struck nine o’clock ; she took her candle and went 
downstairs. Her steps made no sound on the thick carpet 
that covered the staircase. She crossed the hall, entered 
the salon, took the volume that she was in search of, and 
was about to ascend again to her room, when, passing in 
front of one of the windows that opened on the garden, 
she thought she saw a dim light shining among the darkness 
of the shrubbery. She went to the window, with more 


A DEBT OF //A TEED, 


8i 


curiosity than astonishment, and looked carefully out. 
Twenty metres away, connected with the villa by a glazed 
gallery that was fitted up as a conservatory, there was a 
pavilion, now unused, where her mother in former days had 
been accustomed to spend a portion of her time. To the 
east of the little building there was a clump of trees which 
served to shelter it from the east winds, and it was through 
the close-drawn blind of the window which looked out upon 
this clump that a dim light was now shining. Not for a 
moment did Th^rese suspect anything wrong ; she thought 
neither of robbers nor of lovers ; in the illumination of this 
apartment, that was usually unoccupied, she beheld some- 
thing out of the ordinary course, of which she determined 
to know the reason. It was very easy of explanation ; doubt- 
less some servant had gone into the pavilion with a light ; 
but, as Mme. de Saint-Maurice existed in a constant state of 
dread of fire, the young girl thought it best to go in person 
and see what was going on there. She crossed the drawing- 
room, opened the door that gave access to the gallery and, 
passing between the double row of exotic plants which con- 
cealed the walls and windows, was directing her steps to- 
ward the pavilion, when she heard a door close. She looked 
out and beheld a man descending the steps of a little stoop 
which opened from the ground floor of the pavilion upon the 
more unfrequented portion of the garden. She failed to 
recognize him ; he had the dress and appearance of a 
gentleman and bore a light overcoat across his arm. At the 
foot of the steps he turned and addressed some one in the 
door-way, who was invisible to Th^rese, with a graceful 
gesture of supplication. At that moment the door closed 
and the stranger vanished by a little alley that was overhung 
with drooping branches. Therese remained standing where 
she was in a state of ■ stupefaction. Some one mysteriously 
leaving the little pavilion and some one remaining watching 


82 


J DEBT OF //A TEED. 


him as he departed, whom he entreated to return — it was very 
strange! Who could that some one be? A woman, no* 
doubt, and one of the servants of the house ; but which of 
them ? She was not left long in doubt. There was a sound 
of light footsteps coming from the pavilion, the rustle of a 
woman’s dress, and then a deep, low voice asked, with a 
trace of surprise in it : 

“ Is that you, Leila ? ” 

Therese’s eyes dilated with horror, cold beads of per- 
spiration stood upon her forehead, her hands shook so that 
the flame of the candle flickered as if about to go out. The 
young girl stood as if rooted to the floor, hearing no 
sound save the beating of her own heart, which throbbed 
with a violence that seemed to deprive her of hearing. At 
that instant Lydie appeared at a bend in the path among 
the dark green verdure. At sight of her cousin she could 
not repress a movement of surprise and her face paled 
a little, but in a perfectly natural tone she said : 

‘‘What, is that you? You have not seen Leila, have 
you? I told her to wait for me ” As Th^rese con- 
tinued to stand there like a statue, speechless and motion- 
less, her horrified look alone announcing that she was 
alive : “I like to come at night,” Mile, de Saint-Maurice 
continued, “ and rest here among these tropical plants. It 
seems to me that I breathe here the air of my native 
land.” As if to fortify herself against a suspicion that 
her cousin’s strange manner seemed to indicate the exist- 
ence of, she added : “ Leila is always with me.” 

Therese made no reply ; she could not have spoken 
had her life been at stake, so great was her sense of 
oppression. Tears burst from her eyes, and with a sor- 
rowful motion of her head, she said : 

“ Not so.” 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 83 

“ Not SO ! ” the creole repeated indignantly. “What do 
you mean by that ? ” 

Therese offered no explanation ; she was shedding bit- 
ter tears, entirely unnerved by the discovery that she had 
just made, and any one looking at the two girls as they 
stood there together, one sobbing and ready to sink, the 
other cold and stern, notwithstanding the state of terror she 
was in, would have said that they had inverted their roles 
and that the innocent had taken the place of the guilty. 

“ But what are you crying about, I ask again ? ” Lydie 
continued, with an approach to irritation. “ Speak, explain 
yourself.” 

Therese at last regained a little of her strength, and dry- 
ing the tears that were streaming from her eyes : “ Lydie,” 
she demanded, “who is the man who left the pavilion only 
a moment ago ? ” 

“A man?” exclaimed Mile, de Saint-Maurice, with a 
hysterical laugh. “ A man ! What are you talking about ? 
I was alone ” 

“ Do not deny it,” Therese rejoined. “ A denial is equiv- 
alent to a confession that you were doing wrong. I saw 
him — I tell you that I saw the man as he was going away.” 

“ But when I tell you solemnly ” 

Lydie was not suffered to proceed ; Therese, frail and 
gentle as she was, had advanced upon her with indignation 
and menace written on her face. “Take care ! do not for- 
get that you are in my house. What is passing here concerns 
the honor of the family. If you persist in your falsehood, 
I shall call your mother, happen what may, and tell her 
everything.” 

The creole made a movement as if to stop Therese, then 
coldly and silently seated herself upon a bench, with bowed 
head and contracted lips. Her companion, alarmed and 


S4 


A DEB T OE A/A teed. 


disgusted, looked at her with amazement, waiting for a 
word from her that should explain matters and put a more 
favorable meaning Upon that which she could form only an 
indistinct notion of ; but Lydie, now that she was not al- 
lowed to shield herself with a lie, appeared determined to 
hold her tongue. It was Therese^ therefore, who, with a 
deep shudder of horror and disgust, renewed the conversa- 
tion by asking : 

How did this man effect an entrance here ? I hope, at 
all events, that it was the first time.” 

Lydie was quite ready to swear to anything. She ex- 
claimed : “ Oh, yes ! it was the first time — and it was 

against my will, too ! ” 

“ Against your will ! Why did you not tell me so at 
once ? Oh, Lydie, give me the assurance that you have 
nothing to reproach yourself with but an imprudence ! 
But oh ! such a serious and such a culpable imprudence ! 
Come, tell me everything — be frank — so that I, with my 
little experience, may be able to counsel you, and, at need, 
defend you.” 

“Yes, you are right ; as you said yourself, it was an im- 
prudence. I did not know what I was doing when I per- 
mitted the man whom you saw just now to make my ac- 
quaintance. We met, as you may remember, on the day of 
our excursion to Monaco ” 

“ Ah ! that foreigner ? ” 

“ Yes. He kept following me for a long time and 1 paid 
no attention to him. As chance would have it, the next 
day, when Leila was with me ” 

“Leila! What had she to do in this business?” Th6- 
rese impetuously asked. 

“ Oh ! don’t be angry with her, it was more my fault than 
hers ! We had gone out together and were returning along 
the Saint- Hospice road when we encountered the foreigner. 


A DEIBT OF ffATRED. 


85 


He bowed to me. I saw no harm in returning his salute. 
He let us pass and watched us from a distance, following us 
and thus learning where I lived. From that time he was 
continually on my track — I could not put my foot out- 
doors without seeing him — he kept a watch on me and at- 
tempted to address me. I avoided him, in constant fear 
that his presence about the grounds should be noticed — for 
I was careful of the good name of the family, which you 
accused me just now of compromising — you know you did. 
But my modesty only seemed to make him the bolder, and 
yesterday he ventured into the garden. What was to be 
done ? We might be seen from the house — and yet it was 
necessary to have a definite understanding in order that I 
might be free from the attentions of this person. I allowed 
him to follow me into the pavilion — I know it was very 
wrong, and I deserve all that you have reproached me with 
—but I was out of my mind. He only remained a few 
moments — and Leila was here, within earshot — I suppose 
she ran away when she heard you coming. Oh, Therese, 
forgive me ; tell me that you do not judge me too harshly ; 
I was afraid — and I am so frightened still !” 

Therese had listened to this tale without attempting to 
interrupt her, endeavoring to decide as to its probability by 
the tones of Lydie’s voice and the expression of her face. 
Every word that she had heard seemed to her false, and she 
had a more distinct sense of her cousin’s culpability after 
this explanation than after the discovery of the incriminat- 
ing fact itself. A deep melancholy took possession of her 
mind. It was a horrible thing for this tender-hearted and 
generous creature to be compelled thus to suspect another, 
to judge her and visit her with her scorn. As she essayed 
to throw light upon the details of Lydie’s adventure, she ex- 
perienced a disgust like that of the ermine when it beholds 
its immaculate fur stained with filthy mud. She was clear 


86 


A DEBT OF hatred. 


in her conviction : Lydie was not telling the truth. She 
gave up attempting to discover it. Moreover, what ad- 
vantage would there be in knowing it ? Was not the total 
absence of all moral sense in the unfortunate girl sufficiently 
apparent, and was there any use in bringing her shame more 
clearly to the light ? She had allowed herself to be involved 
in an intrigue, more frivolous than criminal, but so terribly 
reprehensible in its frivolity ; for while she was thus for- 
getting herself and all her womanly dignity among these 
miserable coquetries, her affianced husband, in obedience 
to the call of duty, was far away, surrounded by dangers ; 
nay, even dead, for all they knew. 

Therese spoke and said : “ Did you, then, never think 
of Raimond when you were listening to this man ? ” 

“ Oh, I beseech you, do not crush me to the ground ! ” 
the creole exclaimed ; ^‘you see how unhappy I am. How 
could I have time to think of any one or anything in l^ie 
terrible state of trouble I was in ? ” 

As she said this, she allowed her head to fall into her 
open hands, a skillful maneuver which relieved her of the 
necessity of forcing tears. Therese reflected : “ After all, 
I may be wrong in accusing her of deceiving me. Perhaps 
she is telling the truth ; after all, things may have hap- 
pened as she says. Her unnatural tone of voice and the 
shrewdness with which she sets forth her arguments are 
perhaps only the result of her terror, combined with truth. 
I might judge her more impartially did I love Raimond 
less.” The generous soul went so far as even to doubt her- 
self in her desire to exonerate Lydie. She resumed : 

“ What did you say to this man to make him go away ? ” 
“ I told him that he was doing me harm by remaining 
here against my will — that some one might come and sur- 
prise us. Then he told me that he would go away if I 
would allow him to return day after to-morrow. I thought 


A DEBT OF HATTED. 87 

that would give me time to concert measures for my se- 
curity.” 

“ Well, what did you say to him then ? ” 

“ I understand. I saw before me only the immediate re- 
sult that I was aiming at — to get rid of him. I told him 
that if he would go away, I would see him day after to- 
morrow, as he requested me to do. I thought of nothing 
but how best to relieve myself of his presence. The danger 
is over now. Happen what may, you are now acquainted 
with everything, and I have no longer any fear.” 

Therese said to herself, “ She is lying still. She has an- 
other assignation for day after to-morrow. She is trying 
to blind me, but we shall see.” She gave a nod of her 
head and continued aloud, “ This seems to me to be a very 
audacious man. He might be guilty of some imprudent 
action. We must see that the house is carefully secured, 
and, for our greater safety, when your mother shall have re- 
tired at her customary hour, you and I together will keep 
watch in my bedroom. If we are two we shall feel more 
courageous.” 

“ Of course, I will do whatever you wish,” replied Mile, 
de Saint-Maurice, whose face was darkened as if by a pass- 
ing cloud. 

She was reflecting, “To-morrow night I will send Leila 
to caution Girani. In that way he will not come and all 
danger will be avoided.” And at the same instant Therese 
was saying to herself, “ I won’t allow her out of my sight, 
where I can keep my eye on her. This time she shall not 
elude my vigilance.” Thus both of them were preparing 
their stratagems, secretly from each other, each according 
to her disposition and way of acting ; Therese for Lydie’s 
protection, Lydie for her own destruction. Together they 
left the green-house and returned to the salon. When 
they reached the corridor upon which their apartments 


88 


A DEBT OF HATRED, 


opened, the creole threw herself upon her cousin’s breast 
and, between two kisses, said to her affectionately, “ I thank 
you.” Therese embraced her relative, gave [^her 'one Jast 
look, and entered her room. She waited for some time 
behind her closed door to see whether Lydie remained in 
her apartment or not. Finally, reassured for that evening, 
at least, she gave a deep sigh, and, falling upon her knees, 
prayed fervently. When the two cousins met the next 
morning Therese’s face showed the effects of the sleepless 
night that her anxieties had caused her. Lydie, on the 
other hand, who had slept like a baby after the scene that 
she had passed through, was as fresh and blooming as a 
rose. Things went on during the day as U5ual, and not 
a word was exchanged between them that bore upon the 
occurrences of the preceding night. Had it not been for 
Therese’s pale face, Lydie might have thought that all that 
had passed between her and her cousin was a dream, but 
she noted that each time that she went down into the gar- 
den, Therese left her occupation and went with her. It 
was evident enough that she was watched, though the sur- 
veillance was performed silently and discreetly. It behooved 
her, therefore, to be on her guard against this gentle, blue- 
eyed creature, who was capable of carrying things with a high 
hand if she was moved to it. Lydie had nothing to fear, 
however, for she had told the truth except as to the inter- 
view for the second day following having been imposed 
on her by violence. Consequently, the surveillance exer- 
cised by Therese was productive of no result. Nothing 
happened out of the usual course. The evening passed 
tranquilly away ; the night was undisturbed, and it was the 
same on the succeeding day. It was not until after they 
had dined that Lydie seemed to be possessed by an agita- 
tion that was barely noticeable. The decisive moment was 
drawing near. Therese, whose anger had not subsided 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


89 


but whose eyes were very watchful, gave no indication of 
an intention to interfere actively. She was busy with her 
work in the salon., replying to the observations of her aunt, 
and, from time to time, forcing Lydie to speak. Her voice 
betrayed no emotion, and yet a violent agitation was raging 
in her mind ; but this small, frail girl possessed a will of 
iron and could command her nerves as well as the working 
of her mind. She said good-night to Mme. Saint-Maurice 
when that lady, in accordance with her usual indolent 
habit, rose at nine o’clock to retire to her room ; and when ' 
Lydie declared her intention of following her mother, Mile. 
Letourneur said to her with a decision that admitted of no 
reply, “ No. Remain here with me, and summon Leila to 
the room.” 

The creole could not conceal her surprise at these words, 
and gazing insolently at her cousin, said : “ What has Leila 
to do here ? ” 

“ She has nothing to do here, but she has nothing to do 
elsewhere, either. Call her, as I told you.” 

Not to obey this mandate would be equivalent to confess- 
ing that there was an understanding between the mistress 
and the colored woman. Lydie’s face became as red as 
fire, her hands shook with rage ; she rang the bell, how- 
ever. “ What are you going to say to her ? ” she asked. 

“ I shall say nothing to her at all, but she is to remain 
here with us.” 

“ Be frank ; you have some suspicion on your mind ? ” 

“ You are right.” 

They remained facing each other, speechless, for a single 
word more would have unchained their hatred and led to a 
scene of violence. The quadroon entered the room. 

Give her your orders,” said Lydie, as if she had been 
stripped of all authority and had no other course than fp 
take refuge in passive obedience, 


90 


A DEBT OF HAl'FED. 


“ Go into the small drawing-room,” Therese said to 
Leila ; “ leave the door open so that I may be able to hear 
you, and be ready to obey my orders.” 

The colored woman exchanged a glance with her mis- 
tress ; then, with an inclination of the head, obeyed Therese’s 
order. The two young girls applied themselves to their 
work by way of filling up this strange evening. In the 
adjoining room Leila hummed, under her breath, a song of 
her native land. Without, silence prevailed ; night had 
fallen, but the moon was at the full and made the garden 
as light as day. Therese went to the window and looked 
out upon the white paths, where lay the trembling shadows 
of the shrubbery. After a moment it seemed to her that 
she descried a form moving along a flower-bed in one of 
the corners where the shade was more dense. It moved 
with precaution, as if fearing to be seen, careful not to leave 
the portion of the alley that was in shadow. It was the 
Italian, beyond a doubt. The young girl made no move- 
ment nor uttered any sound that might serve to put Lydie 
on her guard. She waited until the nocturnal visitor should 
make up his mind to approach, but he seemed long in 
coming to that resolution ; it seemed as if he were waiting 
for some signal. Therese said to herself : “ If there is an 
understanding between them, and he finds that no signal is 
given him to advance, he will not venture to expose himself 
and I shall lose my opportunity of getting at the bottom of 
this intrigue. I must place this man in such a situation 
that he will come here no more, and to gain this end I must 
meet him face to face. But suppose he does not come for- 
ward. I shall not have the strength to keep up this sur- 
veillance to-morrow and the days thereafter, and besides, 
Lydie will find a way to elude my watchfulness.” 

All this time the dark form had remained motionless. 
Gradually the moonlight was invading the shadows and 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 91 

coming nearer and nearer to it. The man took a few steps 
backward and was lost to view. 'Fherese thought that he 
was about to steal away. She could no longer master her 
impatience, and turning to Lydie, who had not stirred from 
her chair, as if what was going on had no interest for her, 
she said, ‘‘Wait here.” 

Quickly raising the sash of the low window, she stepped 
out into the garden. It was now her turn to conceal her- 
self, as she followed the line of shadow cast by the trees. 
She went forward at a rapid pace in order that he whom 
she was in pursuit of might not have time to fly. She was 
troubled by no fear ; she had nothing to dread from the 
man ; and then, moreover, she felt herself endowed with a 
strange strength. Was not all the authority of the family 
personified in her slight frame ? She coufd see no one be- 
fore her. She hurried on to the small terrace and rapidly 
ascended its three steps. It was empty. Then she leaned 
out over the balustrade, scrutinizing the road, which 
stretched away in the distance with no one visible upon it. 
She was thus left in shadow, beneath the drooping branches 
of the trees. She turned at a low sound behind her ; the 
man whom she was endeavoring to meet emerged from be- 
hind a bush where he had been in hiding and advanced 
toward her. She stepped forward resolutely to meet him ; 
at the same moment they came out into the bright moon- 
light, and an exclamation of amazement fell from their 
lips. 

“ Th^rese ! ” 

“ Raimond ! ” 

They had halted, trembling violently; she from fright, he 
with a horrible delight. Slowly he repeated, “ Therese ! ” 
as if trying to impress upon his mind that the faithless one, 
the culprit before him, was not the other. Then, in an ac- 
cent of sorrowful reproach, he exclaimed ; 


92 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


“ Th^rese ! Unhappy girl ! So, then, it was you ? ” 

In a moment a terrible light flashed across the girl’s 
mind, making plain to her all the meaning that was em- 
braced in those few words : “ So, then, it was you ? ” She 
saw through the frightful misapprehension to which Raimond 
was the victim. She divined that he was there to surprise 
a woman, even as she had come there to surprise a man. 
She did not ask herself the question how he came to be 
there, how he had unearthed this secret. It sufficed her to 
know that he was there, that he knew everything, and that 
she appeared to be the object of his suspicion. She uttered 
a wild cry of protest, looking at him with a face aflame 
with outraged modesty : 

“ I ! I ! ” she stammered ; “ do you accuse me ? ” 

“What are you doing here at night?” he exclaimed. 

“ Unless you are here to meet him who should be here ” 

She drew herself up beneath the insult and attempted a 

denial : “ I don’t know what you mean ” 

“ Do you wish me to speak more clearly, then ?” 

“ But does it necessarily follow, from my being here, that 
I am guilty ? ” 

“ There is no room left me to doubt, knowing what I 
know.” 

“ But what do you know ? tell me.” 

Up to that point Therese had submitted to his accusa- 
tions without betraying the real culprit, but she wished to 
know what it was that she was accused of. To be doubted, 
and by Raimond ! There was a twofold horror in it. She 
was at least entitled to know of what — an imprudence, an 
indiscretion, or a fault ? The girl, cool-headed and deter- 
mined in the midst of her difficulties, did not lose her head ; 
she did not forsake her own cause, and she did not abandon 
others. She was brave. She said : 

Why are you here, why have you scaled a wall and 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


93 


entered this place clandestinely, when you had only to pre- 
sent yourself at the front door, sure of being received with 
words of welcome ? What is the role that you are playing 
here ? Before accusing others, exonerate yourself.” 

Raimond looked at her with a surprise that was almost 
fear. Surely, the firmness of her voice and the assurance 
of her look did not indicate guilt ; Therese not only did 
not defend herself, she was even bold enough to assume 
the offensive. He was disconcerted ; suppose he was mis- 
taken ; suppose it was appearances alone that condemned 
Therese? He could not defer the explanation that she 
demanded and that he, now, was even more anxious for 
than she. His only thought was how best to lay the matter 
before her ; the explanation might be cruel ; it must be 
clear ; the time was past when he could spare her feelings. 
He continued : 

I knew when I came here that I was to meet a woman, 
and that that woman would be here to meet her lover ; try, 
Therese, and imagine the suffering which that thought 
caused me; there were two women : you, the companion of 
my childhood, and Lydie, my betrothed. It was one of 
them or it was the other — and if it were you, my heart was 
broken — if it were she, all that was left me was to die.” 

“ To die ” Therese tremblingly repeated. 

“ Yes, my dear child, it would have been terrible indeed 
to find you there, but think what it would have been to me 
had it been Lydie. Oh ! you cannot understand what I have 
suffered these last two days, since I have been acquainted 
with that wretched secret. I have been almost beside 
myself ; and above all I wanted to know the truth — to let 
daylight in upon the dreadful situation. Was it you or 
was it Lydie? Oh ! it is a frightful thing to say, but that 
it might not be Lydie I would have willingly renounced all 
hope of happiness in this world and in the world to come, I 


94 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


would have sold my soul; I know not what I would not have 
done ! ” 

Therese had become deathly pale. Strength was left 
her, however, to ask with a firm voice : 

“ Then you did not know when you came here whom you 
were to meet ? ” 

No ; I did not know.” 

And if it had been Lydie instead of me ? ” 

“ If it had been Lydie, I think that I should have killed 
her and then myself ! ” 

She gave a deep sob : “ Oh ! Raimond, how you must 

love her ! ” 

“ As she is worthy of being loved,” he cruelly replied. 
Therese bowed her head and said nothing more. Raimond 
went on, with blind, unreasoning rage : 

“ This man, who had boasted — you hear me, wretched 
girl ! yes, he had made his public boast of his good for- 
tune — this man would not solve the horrid doubt that he 
saw was torturing me. He had incriminated one of the 
two women who dwell in this house, but some lingering 
scruple would not permit him to tell me which of the two it 
was. The honor of my relations was at stake, Therese, 
and it was not in this man’s power to make reparation ; 
for — and I ask you to forgive me for mentioning things 
which will cause you so much pain— the man, who had 
doubtless given himself out to be unmarried, the better to 
attain his ends, had lied, and I had the avowal of it from 
his own lips ; he was a married man.” 

“ Married ! you say,” exclaimed Therese. “ A married 
man ! ” 

Yes, he was a married man. After that, blood alone 
could wipe out the insult ” 

“ Did you fight with him ? ” 

“I swear to you, Therese, had he been free, I would 


A DEB T OF HATRED. 95 

have forced him to do his duty and repair the wrong he had 
done ; but since he was twice guilty ” 

“ Well ? ” 

‘‘ Well ! I killed him ! ” She looked at him in horror, and 
only said, “ Good God ! ” Then, throwing herself upon 
the stone bench, she concealed her face in her hands. Her 
thoughts rushed to her mind with frightful clearness : “ If 
that wretch could have but married Lydie, all would have 
been well ; but he was married. Married or dead, what 
matters it? He could] no longer be of use to us. And 
now Raimond is about to meet again her who has been 
false to him, and he suspects nothing. It is I whom he 
believes to be the guilty one. Shall I let myself be crushed 
beneath his scorn without a word of defense? It would re- 
quire but a few words to put each of us in her true place ; 
why should I not speak those words? ” 

But the words of Ploerne rose before her mind : “ If it 
had been Lydie I think I should have killed her and then 
myself ! " and she shuddered with affright. Yes, he loved 
Lydie so that he could die for her if he saw that she was 
lost to him. Ought she, then, to brusquely tell him the 
dreadful truth to exonerate herself? But ought she, also, 
to suffer him to remain in the belief of Lydie’s innocence? 
Oh ! this change of roles was too hard. That, in order to 
spare Raimond mortal suffering, she should consent to en- 
dure his scorn was a thing that might be borne ; but to leave 
Lydie safe in his respect and love ! That seemed to her 
beyond her powers of endurance. Raimond’s voice re- 
called her from her stormy meditation. 

“ Forgive me, dear child,” he said, “ the grief that I have 
caused you. Think of this alone : that man was unworthy 
of you, and in killing him I have avenged your wrongs. 
Hate me not ; it would be too cruel to see your face turned 
from me in horror — and yet I feel that my presence must 


96 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 

be hateful to you. You must not stay here longer. The 
people at the house might notice your absence. Go to your 
room; reflect and pray. To-morrow, when calmer, you 
will judge me with more fairness.” 

Like a shadow in the transparent night, she descended 
from the terrace and disappeared at the bend in the path. 
When alone, Raimond drew a deep sigh and leaped the 
balustrade into the road. The sea lay sparkling before him 
in the moonlight like a mirror of silver, a cool and odor- 
ous breeze was gently agitating the foliage, profound peace 
rested upon all things. Raimond felt his heart freed from 
its-bitterness and swelling with new-born delight. Life 
seemed kind and bright to him now that he knew that 
Lydie was true. But two days before, strange mystery that 
was beyond his ken, another, like him, had gone along that 
same path, in front of the same silvery sea, beneath the 
same friendly light, thinking that he was happy because 
Lydie was his. Nothing was changed;, the earth was not 
more sterile, the sea was not less calm, the heavens less 
clear. There was only in the world one illusion, one de- 
ception more. 

Upon her return to the house Therese had seen the lights 
of the salon shining out into the darkness of the night, and 
the current of. her thoughts had suddenly undergone a 
change. That light reminded her that Lydie was waiting 
for her there, and that in a few moments she would have 
to give her an explanation of what had just occurred. 
What a change it would bring to her life, what a shock it 
would be to her feelings ! Ploerne home again and the 
Italian dead ! How was she to break the news to her ? 
Was she likely to die of her grief when she should learn 
that Girani had paid for his happiness with his life ? Had 
she sufficient strength of mind to endure the thought that 
her fiand had been the slayer of her lover? This was 


97 


A DEB 7^ OF HA l'RED. 

the problem that Therese had to revolve in her mind 
during the short passage from the terrace to the house, 
and when she opened the door of the salon she was in a 
state of fearful agitation. She found that Lydie had left 
her seat. Her assumed indifference had not been able 
to withstand her curiosity, and she was standing expect- 
antly by the window, while in the adjacent room Leila 
was still crooning her favorite air. The creole had a 
presentiment of bad news as soon as she beheld Therese’s 
troubled face. She advanced swiftly, and taking her by 
the hand. 

“ What has happened ? ” she anxiously inquired. “ Speak 
quickly." 

Therese threw a swift glance toward the small room 
where the quadroon was, and said, “ We are not alone." ~ 

“ What difference does that make ? it is only Leila — she 
counts for nothing." 

“ She may betray us," Therese gravely replied. 

“ She would bite her tongue in two first," Lydie proudly 
answered. “ Speak — I am dying with impatience. Did you 
see him? Did you speak to him ? " 

“ No." 

“You did not ? Why, it is more than half an hour since 
you left the house — and you are as pale as a ghost. What 
is the matter ?" 

“ The matter is that I did not fipd the man whom you 
were expecting upon the terrace." 

“Whom did you find, then ? For the love of God ! you 
make me tremble " 

“ Him whom of all men in the world you would rather 
not have seen ; him to whom you did a mortal wrong by re- 
ceiving the foreigner ; him, too, whom we believed too far 
. away to surprise the secret." 

Lydie’s eyes dilated and her hands shook with fear. A 


98 


J DEBT OF HATRED. 


name rose to her lips that she dared not utter, so great was 
her agitation. But she perceived the reason of Therese’s 
emotion, as Therese understood the reason of her terror ; 
they had no need of further words. Lydie repressed her 
agitation, however, and burning with her desire to obtain 
an explanation, asked : 

“ So, then, he and — and — the other have met ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What happened ? ” 

“ He endeavored to make the other confess for whose 
sake it was that he came here.” 

“ And did he confess ? ” 

“ No.” 

Lydie breathed more freely. She felt that she was 
relieved of a portion of her load of anxiety. She had not 
been incriminated. The question now was, what had re- 
sulted from the meeting of the two men ? She resumed her 
interrogatory : 

“ What happened after that ? ” 

Therese hesitated as she was at the point of answering. 
She was now certain that Lydie had deceived her in telling 
her that she had met the Italian but once before the even- 
ing when he made his appearance in the garden. She would 
not have received him thus had she not loved him. What 
must her grief be in learning the tragic termination of her 
adventure? Generous and compassionate throughout, even 
toward her whom she could no longer esteem, the young girl 
hesitated to utter the irrevocable words. She could not 
further delay her explanation, however, and the silence was 
becoming harder to bear than the admission of the truth. 

“Words passed,” she said ; “ there wasa duel, and ” 

Lydie uttered a cry of terror : “ Raimond killed him ? ” 

She bent her gaze, full of terrible anxiety, upon Therese’s 
face. The latter, without replying, inclined her head. 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


99 


Then the creole, with an expression of unspjeakable horror 
upon her face, buried her hands in her hair, and moving 
frantically about the room, as if attacked by madness, re- 
peated again and again ; 

“ He killed him ! Oh ! my God, he killed him ! He 
killed him ! Oh ! my God ! ” 

No words could express the mingled rage and terror with 
which she shrieked these words. It was at the same time a 
plaint and an imprecation, as if she were wildly lamenting 
the dead man and cursing his slayer. Therese, in her 
alarm, endeavored to restrain her, attempted to calm her 
and reason with her, but Lydie threw her cousin from her 
violently, and continued to pace the floor with disordered 
steps and utter her wild cries. Leila hastened to her from 
the small room. She was received with the same piercing 
shrieks ; but the quadroon grasped the girl in her arms and^ 
compelled her to be more quiet. She said to her authorita- 
tively : 

“ Be silent, mistress ! Your mother may hear you.” 

The prudent observation appeared to produce an impres- 
sion upon Mile, de Saint-Maurice. She ceased her frantic 
movements, and tears burst in torrents from her eyes ; then, 
beholding Therese looking at her compassionately, she 
stamped with her foot angrily upon the floor, and said : 

“ Come, Leila, we will go to my room ; there I can at 
least be free to weep.” 

Without a word of kindness for her cousin she opened 
the door and vanished. The quadroon turned toward 
Therese, and laying her finger significantly upon her fore- 
head, said, in a hollow voice : 

“ You must forgive her. She is suffering terribly.” 

She left the room to go to her mistress. Therese, thus 
left to her.self, paused a moment at the window, looking out 
upon the garden with its masses of dark foliage and its paths 


lOO 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


lying white in tl;ie still moonlight. A gleam of hope shone 
in her heart in the midst of all her trouble and discourage- 
ment, but she thought it unworthy of herself to rejoice in 
the misfortune of another, even though that misfortune 
might restore to her the happiness that she had thought 
was lost to her forever. Still she had suffered so deeply 
that it was hard for her to refrain from comforting herself 
with this first ray, pale and feeble though it was. 

She beheld another- garden, that of the hotel in Paris, and 
the time was the evening when Raimond came to say good- 
by to them. With a feeling of mortal melancholy she had 
left the sailor and Lydie alone together, well knowing what 
were the words that would be exchanged between them. 
An hour later they had re-entered the house, hand in 
hand, and had announced their engagement. She had 
watched them, while nothing betrayed the despair that was 
consuming her heart ; she had had a smile upon her lips 
while she congratulated them, and for two long years she 
had lived with the assurance that life for her was ended 
before it had begun, and that nothing less than a miracle 
could change the destiny that was in store, for her. 

And now that miracle was come to pass. The garden 
at Beaulieu had li.stened to other oaths than those that had 
been exchanged at Paris on the evening preceding his de- 
parture. It had beheld passing along its paths, among its 
groves, another man than he who was to be Lydie’s hus- 
band. Everything was overturned ; nothing was as it had 
been, and Therese had right to hope. Alas ! the feebleness 
of that hope ! Lydie might be parted from Raimond, but 
Raimond lived for Lydie alone. He had said, “ Had I 
found her faithless I would have killed her, and then would 
have killed myself ! ” Would he survive his abandonment 
by this thankless woman? Vain hope! But yet it was a 
hope, and brave Therese clung to it with all her strength. 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


lOI 


She made her way to her room with lingering steps, and 
as she passed Lydie’s door thought she heard a murmur of 
voices, accompanied by groans and sobs. She did not stop 
to listen, but entered her room. 

The voice was Leila’s, exhorting her mistress to be calm ; 
the sobs and groans proceeded from Lydie, and emanated 
from her temper rather than from any grief she felt. The 
quadroon was addressing her as if she were a child : 

“ You must be more reasonable,” she said. “ What good 
does it do to give way to your feelings thus ? To-morrow 
you will be sick, or else your features will be all distorted, 
and then how will you be able to meet him to whom you 
ought to exhibit a cheerful countenance ? ” 

“ Don’t speak of him to me ; I hate him ! ” she cried, 
raising her pale face that was shadowed by her raven 
locks. 

“ Hate him as much as you please, if you can’t do other- 
wise, but smile on him all the same. He is your fiance'" 

I wish never to see him again ! ” 

“ How can you help seeing him ? Do you mean to make 
a confession ? ” 

I will do anything rather than suffer his odious pres- 
ence.” 

“ You are talking like a child.” 

“What you do, if you were in my place?” 

“ You ask a poor negress what she would do? Well, lis- 
ten, while I tell you the story of a woman of my race. It 
happened in Cuba, a long time ago. She was a slave and 
had found favor in her master’s eyes. She loved a man of 
her own color, and the regard of him who could dispose of 
her as he would of any other chattel that he had bought and 
paid for insprred her with a feeling of horror. She turned 
a deaf ear to his advances. Then, by way, as he said, of 
bringing down her pride, he caused the man whom his 


102 


A DE/iT OF //A TEED. 


slave preferred to him to be bound to a post and ordered 
that he should be beaten with sticks before her eyes. At 
the twentieth stroke blood was flowing from him as from an 
ox in the shambles. The man never uttered a cry or groan 
amid his tortures — the woman fainted with horror. When 
she came to her senses the poor wretch was dead ; the mas- 
ter had rid himself of a rival. The mulatto woman dried 
her tears and resumed her usual way of life, only she took 
pains to make herself more attractive, and when the white 
man summoned her before him, instead of turning from 
him she smiled on him. Then that man seemed as if bereft 
of reason — he would have married her had she wished it, but 
neither freedom, nor wealth, nor power, were the objects of 
her desire ; what she thirsted for was vengeance. She 
gained the love of the strongest but poorest negro on the 
plantation, and one evening, when the master had signified 
his intention of coming to her cabin, she brought the slave to 
her house and concealed him there, directing him to rush 
out upon the master when he came, seize him, and bind him 
to the upright which sustained the roof. He hesitated to 
undertake the audacious task, but she had so bewitched 
him that finally he consented to risk his life for her pleasure. 
When the white man appeared the negro came forth from 
his hiding place, felled him to the ground, and gagged and 
bound him as the woman had directed. She laughed with 
delight to behold her master writhing with futile rage in his 
bonds, and exclaimed to him, ‘ You put to death, before my 
eyes, with most horrible torments, an innocent man. Die, 
now, you, with the guilt of blood upon your head, in tor- 
ture.’ Then, when she had sufficiently mocked his rage 
and despair, she left the cabin, and with her own hands set 
fire to it. In an instant it was a roaring mass of flame, and 
in that furnace perished he upon whom she had determined 
to wreak her vengeance.” 


A DEBT OP //A TEED. 


103 

During her narration the countenance of the quadroon 
had assumed a more somber expression ; her eyes were dull 
and lusterless, as if they were turned backward and search- 
ing the depths of a distant past. Lydie, supported by her 
cushions, listened, forgetful of her own troubles in her deep 
interest in the recital. When the nurse ceased, she said : 

“ When my father received you into his family, you told 
him that you were from Havana. The woman whose story 
you have just told me was yourself — am 1 not right ?” 

“ Yes, mistress. After the commission of our crime my 
accomplice and I were obliged to fly ; we became maroons, 
and for six months had no other shelter than the forest. 
He was hunted down and killed ; an English ship picked 
me up upon the coast and brought me to Martinique, 
When your father opened his door to me I was dying with 
hunger — you were just born. Your mother placed you in 
my arms and I suckled you at my breast.” 

Leila was silent. Mile, de Saint-Maurice had ceased her 
plaints and was buried in deep thought. The quadroon, 
seated on the ground at her feet, eyed her attentively. After 
a little time Lydie raised her little head, and murmured : 

“ You are right, nurse. A woman of spirit does not give 
way to tears, she avenges her wrongs.” 

Her eyes were bright with the tears that she had so lately 
shed and her red lips were contracted in a bitter smile. She 
snapped her fingers and, rising, said : “ Undress me. To- 
morrow will be a trying day ; I must have rest.” 

She lay down upon her bed and presently was sound 
asleep beneath the vigilant watch of the devoted servant. 
At that hour the partner of her fault was sleeping, too, but 
in the grave, where he had been laid that morning ; and while, 
with his pale face, he was entering upon his eternal slumber, 
the charming creole, laughing in her dreams, was rejoicing 
in visions of the suffering that she would cause another. 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


104 

She was awakened by the bright sunlight streaming into 
her chamber, and with the new day the thoughts of yester- 
day recurred to her mind ; but her grief and desolation 
had been succeeded by sterner and bolder resolutions. 
Leila’s counsels had not fallen upon stony ground, and plans 
were forming in that restless brain that threatened ill to 
some one. Lydie leaped from her bed, thrust her little 
white feet into their furred slippers and slipped on a silken 
dressing-gown. She was just reaching toward the bell to 
summon her nurse when a knock at her chamber-door 
arrested her. ‘‘ Come in,” she said, and Therese entered 
the room. 

Her night had not been as tranquil as Lydie’s, and her 
hollow cheeks and eyes where tears had left their trace bore 
witness to the agitation of her mind. She it was who ap- 
peared to be the guilty one, stung by remorse, consumed by 
anguish — while Lydie, to appearance, was the pure, gentle, 
maidenly creature. Ah ! Raimond could not be deceived 
there when he came ! By looking at those two faces he 
could tell at once which was the monster and which the 
angel ; to which of them he was to open his arms in loving 
trust and confidence ; from which he was to turn with the 
wisdom gained by experience. Yes, there could be no mis- 
take ; the human face never lies ; he had only to trust to 
that display of modesty, frankness, and gentleness, and he 
could not be deceived. 

Lydie received her early visitor with cold suspicion. 
She had a premonition of some secret hostility and instinct- 
ively assumed an attitude of defense. She awaited devel- 
opments, collecting herself and taking care not to be the 
first to speak, that she might have time to rally her forces 
to repel the attack. With the courage of her sincerity 
Therese opened the engagement. 

“We separated so suddenly yesterday and were both 
• 


A DEB 7' OF HA TEED. 


05 


SO upset,’’ said she, “ that we were unable to exchange a 
word of explanation. The occurrences were so unexpected 
that we were both dumfoundered, but this morning we 
must try to look into the situation more clearly. When 
Raimond saw me upon the terrace he thought that it was 
for my sake that the Italian had been coming there, and in 
his excited condition he told me that if it had been you 
whom he met there at the rendezvous, he would have 
killed you and himself afterward. Such a confession made 
it my duty to be silent, for to undeceive Raimond was not 
only to bring ruin to you, but also to drive him to suicide, 
since he loves you better than he loves his life. I have 
therefore shouldered the responsibility of your fault for the 
time being, but I cannot consent to remain burdened with 
it indefinitely. What do you intend to do to relieve me ? ” 

“ Is it your wish that I should inform Raimond of what 
you have so carefully concealed from him } ” 

Of course not.” 

“ Well, then ? ” 

They looked each other in the face and could not find a 
word to say, so hopeless did the situation appear to them. 
To confess the truth would be to rehabilitate Therese, but 
it would mean ruin to Lydie and death to Raimond. The 
blood rushed to Therese’s face, and in trembling tones she 
exclaimed : “ But you cannot expect me to bear the respon- 
sibility of a fault which I did not commit.” 

“ Do you wish that I should speak to Raimond ? ” 
Lydie asked, with icy tranquillity. 

“ Yes, you will have to speak to him, but not to inculpate 
yourself and crush him. There is another way out of the 
difficulty than that which is offered by a confession from 
you, which will be less cruel for him, if not for me, and 
which I would be willing to give my ccMisent to. It would 
not release me from his horrible suspicions, but it would 


io6 A DEBT OF //A TEED. 

set you right with him, and in time his mind might become 
sufficiently tranquil to justify an attempt to exculpate me. 
Yes, I will consent to have him believe me guilty and take 
the chance of undeceiving him at some future day, pro- 
vided you will break your engagement with him and will 
bind yourself never to see him more.” 

A smile appeared upon Lydie’s lips. “Ah ! that is what 
you want, then; is it?” 

“ But is it not what you want, too ? Can you wish that 
the bonds which unite you to him should remain unbroken 
after what has passed ? Come, give the matter a little 
thought.. Do you not know that there is an insurmountable 
obstacle between you and him ? ” 

The creole eyed Th^rese with a piercing look that seemed 
to read her very soul. She made no reply and continued 
to smile. There was not a trace of emotion upon her 
countenance ; her long, curved lashes fell upon her cheek 
without a tremor. All was that her lip, slightly drawn 
back, showed the end of her pearly teeth in a cruel smile. 

“ Is there n’ot blood between you and him ? ” Therese 
went on with increased energy. “When I surprised you 
returning from your interview with that unhappy man, you 
defended yourself by affirming that you had not known 
him before and that he had taken advantage of your terror 
to follow you, but I am well assured that that was not the 
first time that you and he had met. Your tears, too, your 
grief upon hearing of his death, were proof that you had 
not told me the truth. You see, therefore, that you cannot 
be Raimond’s wife — you know it, you feel it in your heart, 
and that is all that I ask from you as the price of my 
sacrifice. Break off this marriage ; break it off, — but not too 
abruptly, so as to cause him suffering, — and in exchange for 
this renunciation, which will cost you nothing, since you do 
not love him, I will assume the responsibility of your guilt.” 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


107 


Lydie drew a deep breath, and slowly replied ; “ I fail to 
see the reason why you are so determined upon a rupture 
between Raimond and me ; there is nothing in the world to 
make it necessary. My jianci fought with a man in whom 
he suspected that he had a rival. He was a little too quick, 
that’s all, and killed him. It was an unfortunate affair, but 
if anything had happened to him it would have been worse 
still. What makes you think that there is anything in all 
this to make it necessary that he and I should part ? ” 

An expression of affright rose to Th^rese’s face. She 
could not understand her logic, but she perceived that it 
was Mile, de Saint-Maurice’s intention to deny what she 
required of her as the price of her self-sacrifice. She gave 
an inarticulate cry and remained as if crushed by such 
dreadful cynicism. 

“We differ in our conclusions,” Lydie continued, “be- 
cause we start from different premises. You adjudge me 
guilty when I am innocent, henoe we fail to agree. And 
yet I think as you do, that we should settle the question 
and define the responsibilities of each of us. This is what 
I will do, if you wish it : as soon as Raimond reaches here 
I will take him to one side and lay before him all the facts 
just as I told them to you the other evening. He will learn 
that you had nothing to do with the incident and will see 
that I was the victim of circumstances. In this way you 
will be exonerated, as it is right that you should desire to 
be, and I will incur the reproaches that my imprudent con- 
duct has earned for me.” 

“ But Raimond will not believe what you say,” exclaimed 
Therese, wringing her hands. 

“ He loves me ! ” Lydie arrogantly replied. 

“ Do not think that it will be such an easy matter to im- 
pose on his credulous love. If you had seen him yesterday, 
the sight would have alarmed you. He was disposed to 


io8 A DEBT OF HATRED. 

suspect everything and every one, and was prepared to have 
recourse to the most violent measures.” 

“ His suspicions are allayed now — and as for his violence, 
I will look after that.” 

“ But you know that you do not love him,” Th^rese ex- 
claimed. “ I have been observing you during the two years 
that he has been away, and not once in all that time did you 
show the slightest regret for his absence. No, no ! you do 
not love him, and I cannot see why you persist in making 
him unhappy, for if he is not loved, it is far better that you 
and he should part, at once and forever ; he will suffer less. 
Come, Lydie, be'reasonable ; do not trifle with a heart like 
his. He is too good, too confiding, too honest, not to de- 
serve all the consideration that you can give him. Oh ! if 
you feel that you have it in your power to make him happy, 
as he deserves to be, then be his wife ; but if you have any 
doubt upon the subject, then, in the name of our friendship, 
of which I have given you so great a proof, let him go 
free.” 

“ So that he may marry you, I suppose! ” said Lydie, with 
a loud laugh. 

“ Me ! marry me ? ” cried Th^rese, whose blood, that a 
moment before had all been in her cheek, now rushed back 
to her heart, leaving her as pale as if she were about to die. 

“ Yes, you ! ” Mile, de Saint-Maurice violently, answered. 
‘^Do you think that I cannot tell what is going on m your 
mind? Do you take me fora fool ? You have not done a thing 
in the last two years of which I failed to see the bearing and 
significance. Did you not assume that puritanical prim- 
ness 01 yours to contrast with my frivolity ? Did you not 
write Raimond so frequently in order to make my negli- 
gence the more apparent ? Was it not your thought that 
some day he would come to see that it was you who re- 
gretted his absence, while I spent my time light-heartedly 


m A DEBT OF HATRED. 109 

in amusing myself ? In two years, you know, the heart of 
man may experience a change ; did not you see a ray of 
hope there, eh, O my goody-goody, sniveling I'herese ? So 
you played the spy on me, and it pleased you to think that 
the trap you had laid for me would shortly fall ; but you let 
your zeal carry you too far ; you did an imprudent thing in 
going to the garden that night in place of me. The scaf- 
folding of plots and plans that you took such pains to rear 
has fallen in ruins about your head, and now you have noth- 
ing left to do but come to me and whine with maudlin senti- 
mentality and, like a hypocrite, plead the cause of a man 
who does not care a straw for you, instead of coming out 
boldly with your thought, which is, ‘Your affianced hus- 
band is pleasing to me ; give him to me, or I will denounce 
you ! ’ ” 

Th^rese did not reply immediately. She had listened in 
amazement to this violent harangue. She endeavored to be 
calm, feeling that if she allowed her indignation to get the 
better of her she would accord too great an advantage to 
her wily opponent. She averted her eyes, for she could not 
look Lydie in the face, shocked as she was by such perver- 
sity, and replied : 

“ If you would know the most secret thought of my heart, 
I will make no mystery of my profound affection for 
Raimond. Yes, you have guessed aright ; I love him, and 
have loved him since my childhood. But see the differ- 
ence there is between my affection and yours ; knowing 
that he loved you, I have never said a word to turn 
him away from you ; knowing that I love him, you 
strain every nerve to keep him ; not for the happiness 
of being his wife, but for the satisfaction of keeping 
him from me. You say that for the last two years 
you have read my thoughts ; there is little merit in 
that, for I have never practiced dissimulation and am 


no 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


incapable of lying, as you see, since I answer the first 
question that you ask me by an avowal. Neither am I a 
hypocrite, and if I have lived a retired life and worn black 
dresses since Raimond went away, the reason is that I was 
then in mourning for my mother and am not yet consoled 
for her loss. It is true that it entered my mind that you 
might forget the absent, and that then mine might be the joy 
of consoling him for your desertion, and your own frivolity 
was what first inspired this evil thought, for which I blush ; 
but if you had been faithful, I should not have had your 
inconstancy to reckon on, and would have plucked the heart 
from out my bosom rather than harbor there a dis- 
loyal thought. Now all that I looked for at your hands 
has come to pass ; another love stands between your fiand 
and you. You deny it, but you will not succeed in con- 
vincing me of your truth. The stranger who came here the 
other evening had been here before. You cannot give your 
hand to the honest man who brings to you an undivided affec- 
tion and feel that the gift is a worthy one to make. Honor, 
prudence, everything, command you to break the tie that 
unites you. I do not ask you to answer me at once ; you 
must have time to reflect. Do not believe that I am acting 
from a selfish motive ; it is Raimond alone, whose interest 
I have in view. I know that he is too wholly yours to hope 
that he can love me. My only desire is to spare you an 
evil deed, him the danger that menaces in the future ; but I 
am resolved to do all that lies in my power to reach this 
end.” 

“ I am deeply obliged for your kindness in putting me on 
my guard. It is no more than I had expected, however. I 
for my part, will do all that lies in my power that you shall 
reach your end.” 

Therese made a slight salutation with her head and left 
the room without another word. As soon as the door 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


Ill 


closed on her, Lydie bounded to the entrance of her dress- 
ing-room and raising the portiere., called : 

Leila ! ” 

The quadroon appeared at once. With a brusque ges- 
ture the girl seized her by the wrist, and dragging her for- 
ward to the middle of the room, exclaimed : 

Therese has just left the room. Guess what she had 
to say to me ? ” 

“ There is no need for me to guess ; I was listening,” the 
colored woman tranquilly replied. 

“ Well ! what do you think now of that little cold-blooded 
blonde ? ” 

I think that she is capable of doing what she said she 
would do, and going with her story to your fianc^ and 
your mother.” 

“ Do you know that Raimond would kill me, just as like 
as not ? ” 

The quadroon shook her fist with a determined air : 

Am I not here ? Let him so much as lay his finger 
on you, and woe be unto him ! ” The words sounded so 
direful as she uttered them that Lydie shivered. 

“ We must have no imprudences that we might regret 
hereafter,” said the young girl. “ We are not out in the 
colonies, where there are certain flowers that bring immedi- 
ate death to one who smells them. We have no cobras 
here, whose sting is fatal, so that by making a puncture in 
the leg and injecting poison, no one can tell whether or not 
death was caused by the serpent’s venom. We are in 
France, a land where the law takes cognizance of every- 
thing, where every event is carefully and methodically 
inquired into, and where it is not permitted one to love too 
ardently or hate too fiercely. Reserve your methods, there- 
fore, for the time when there shall be supreme need of them, 
and let me settle this business in my own way.” 


II2 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


“ If you intend to employ your charms, all the Thereses 
in the world will be powerless to withstand them.” 

Lydie had risen from her seat, and the opening of her 
peignoir displayed her white and rounded neck. Her arms, 
as firm and lustrous as polished marble, emerged from the 
flowing sleeves and exposed to view the warm and amber- 
like tints of the flesh as high as the shoulder. Her blue- 
black hair rolled in billowy masses from her small head, 
almost concealing her form, and reaching nearly to the floor. 
In her eyes sparkled a look of victory, and upon her rosy 
lips there was a defiant smile. So conquering was her 
beauty as she stood there that the quadroon fell to her 
knees before her, as before an idol, and bending her bronzed 
head in devout admiration, imprinted a lingering kiss upon 
her bare foot. 


IV. 


I T was about two o’clock when Raimond, having an- 
nounced his coming by a letter, presented himself at the 
villa of Beaulieu. His aunt was awaiting him in the draw- 
ing-room, seated by the fire-place, shivering in spite of the 
bright sunlight that streamed into the room through the 
windows. She uttered an exclamation of delight as she 
caught sight of the sailor, and extending her arms- with 
motherly effusiveness. 

“ Ah, my dear child, what a pleasure and what a sur- 
prise ! ” she cried. “ The manner of your departure and of 
your return are equally calculated to take away our breath ! 
But this time we need not cry ; we can rejoice. Let us 
have a look at you ; you seem to be in perfect health ; and 
how is your wound getting on ? ” 

“It is completely healed, my dear aunt. I was conva- 
lescent even at the time when I started for home, and six 
weeks of life at sea have made a new man of me. You are 
all well here, I hope ? There have been no changes since 
I went away ? ” 

Pie watched Mme. de Saint-Maurice closely as he asked 
this question, anxious to know whether she knew anything 
of the mysterious occurrences that had reached his knowl- 
edge. The good lady never blenched ; she was not in- 
dined, amid her personal troubles, to bother her head with 
things that did not concern her own well-being. She had 
noticed nothing suspicious in the attitude of the two young 
girls who had lived constantly under her eye ; neither the 
gentle melancholy of the one nor the ardent reveries of the 
other had attracted her attention. 

113 


1 14 A DEBT OF //A TEED. 

While. Raimond listened to the verbose inquiries and ex- 
planations of his aunt, and abandoned himself to his dis- 
agreeable reflections, the door opened and Therese ap- 
peared. Raimond watched her as she came forward and 
was astonished to find her so little changed from what she 
was when he went away ; it seemed to him as if a week, 
and not two long years, had passed since his departure. 
There was the same slender form of a child of sixteen, the 
same grave, candid smile, the same frank look from the 
clear blue eyes. He was so struck by what he saw that he 
remained standing, speechless and motionless, oppressed 
by a strange doubt. He was only aroused by his aunt say- 
ing to him, in her astonishment at his reserve : 

“ Well, Raimond, you always used to kiss your cousin ! ” 

Feeling that he was maladroit and might compromise 
Mile. Letourneur by his behavior, he made an effort, and, 
drawing her to him, touched his lips to her pale forehead. 
She spoke, and her tender voice, its accents slightly veiled, 
did not seem to him the voice of one who was accus- 
tomed to whisper vows of forbidden love. It was the same 
that he had often heard raised in prayer when she was 
a little girl, and again the impression came to him, very 
clear and distinct, that Therese was what she had been 
always— a pure and innocent girl. 

He raised his eyes to her face, and in the young girl’s 
eyes, that had suddenly grown dark, he beheld tears glitter- 
ing. A blush rose to her cheek. Tears and blushes, how- 
ever, were neither the effect of shame. He seemed to 
read upon Therese’s face a sort of affectionate pity. Her 
attitude toward him was that which he would have wished 
to have toward her. She gave an impression of compas- 
sionating him, and he could not find it in him to pity her, 
either by reason of her face or of her speech. He had a 
feeling that his compassion would be thrown away. 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 115 

He was so uneasy, so affected by this sudden change in his 
sentiments, that the idea occurred to him of taking Therese 
aside and obtaining from her, even by violence, if necessary, 
a confession that would relieve him of his doubts ; but even 
as he was about to carry this idea into effect his arm fell to 
his side, his mouth closed, and mind, heart, his entire be- 
ing were dominated by a mightier influence. Lydie had 
appeared at the door. 

In her the metamorphosis was complete. He had left 
behind him a child ; he found a woman. She looked at 
him with a smile, adorable as she was in the splendid ma- 
turity of all her beauty. The dress that she had artfully 
selected for their first interview was a very simple one, and 
the modesty of her attire did something to render less con- 
spicuous the ample roundness of her shoulders and her 
bust. She gave him her hand, and he came near pros- 
trating himself at her feet as he bent over her white and 
tapering fingers. In the mental disturbance that this ap- 
parition caused him, he had not remarked the pallor of her 
face, that was brought out in strong contrast by the black- 
ness of her humid eyes, nor the passionate curve of her lip, 
that was just shaded by a light down. He had not been 
alarmed by the deep, somewhat hoarse timbre of her voice. 
He was beside himself, dazzled, bewitched. He gazed at 
her, admiring and desiring with all the strength of his 
nature. 

“ Welcome home, Raimond,” she said. “ I am glad to 
see you.” 

He was easily pleased, the poor sailor, to be content with 
this frosty reception, he who, during the long hours of the 
journey, had comforted himself with dreams of how she 
would throw herself upon his bosom and weep for joy in 
his arms. It was Therese who had wept, and whom a word 
would have brought to his bosom, but he had no eyes for 


A DEBT OE //A TEED. 


i i6 

her. He no longer knew even if she were in the rooniv 
Lydie overshadowed and eclipsed all else. Mine, de Saint- 
Maurice’s voice dissolved the spell. 

“ Nephew, tell us, please, how you came to drop down 
on us in this way, without sound of drum or trumpet,” she 
said. “ Your last letter apprised us of your return, but 
did not give it so near a date.” 

Thereupon Raimond had to satisfy the old lady by relat- 
ing to her all the details of his convalescence, and how it 
had luckily happened that an officer of his rank had reached 
headquarters just at that time and, by relieving him of his 
duties, enabled him to secure his leave. He took some 
little interest in relating the more recent events in which he 
liad taken part : the skirmish at the pass of Min, the bom- 
bardment of Fou-Tcheou, then their winter-quarters at Ke- 
lung, where they had suffered so^amid incessant fighting. 
He did not notice Lydie’s half-concealed yawns ; he was 
only conscious of her black eyes fixed upon him with feigned 
interest. Therese was deeply moved by his narration, but 
her thrills and palpitations escaped his notice. 

When the ceremony was completed of what Lydie lightly 
called “ going over the log,” the young couple rose, and in 
their desire to be alone, together descended to the garden. 
Therese looked wistfully after them, but made no attempt 
to follow. What would be the use ! She could no longer 
hope that Lydie would restore his freedom to her betrothed. 
She had abandoned the hope of making Raimond see the 
truth. Between the wicked persistency of the one and the 
willful blindness of the other she was powerless. She 
would have to allow that one whom she loved more than all 
the world beside to take his chance of life with that charm- 
ing monster, or else she must resort to extreme measures, 
which terrified her when she looked them in the face ; who 
could tell, even if she denounced her rival, whether her de- 


A DEBT OE HATRED. 


I17 

iiunciation would be believed ? And then to be looked 
upon as an envious calumniator — the horror of it ! And 
still, was she doing right, knowing as she did this infamous 
secret, to allow an union to be concluded that was defiled 
even before its birth ? 

She revolved this frightful problem in her aching head as 
she sat at the table where Mme. de Saint-Maurice was tran- 
quilly reading, and in the garden she beheld Raimond and 
Lydie walking to and fro with the loitering step of lovers, 
beneath the trees that had witnessed her cousin’s encoun- 
ters with the Italian. What was she to do ? There was no 
solution to the problem that had not its own particular 
horror. Could she allow this marriage to take place and 
assume the responsibility of the misfortunes that must inev- 
itably result from it ? The other course meant dishonor to 
Lydie and a broken heart for Raimond ; she would expose 
herself to hearing him reply in the exasperation of his pas- 
sion, “ I prefer to take her, guilty though she be, rather 
than lose her ! ” He was capable of doing this, reserving 
to himself to strangle her in his arms in some fitful awaking 
of his conscience. 

Therese analyzed the situation and endeavored to disen- 
tangle the knotted skein without injuring any one, for the 
gentle girl was indulgent, even in this hour of her despair. 
She saw that there were degrees in the suffering which she 
might inflict ; as between Lydie and Raimond she did not 
hesitate for a moment ; she would have sacrificed Lydie 
twenty times over. And yet she would have preferred that 
she herself should be the sacrifice. In view of the obsti- 
nacy of her cousin, and Raimond’s infatuation, there was 
but one solution possible, and that was to tell all to Rai- 
mond ; but how could she make up her mind to do that ; 
when, and in what terms? And who could foresee the con- 
sequences of such a revelation ? 


ii8 A DEBT OF //A TEED. 

She felt she must have another conversation with the 
young man, and one which would lead to some resuk. He 
had said to her the day before : “ When you are calmer 
to-morrow, you will be able to judge me more fairly.” 
This gave her an opportunity to again approach the dreaded 
question. He had also said : “ I shall never mention the 
subject again,” but if he thought it incumbent on him to be 
silent owing to a feeling of delicacy, there was nothing to 
prevent her from speaking. This ske resolved that she 
would do, selecting what seemed to her an appropriate oc- 
casion. Until that time she would maintain an inscrutable 
demeanor. 

The remainder of the day passed quietly, Raimond in en- 
joyment of his new delight, Mme. de Saint-Maurice happy, 
Lydie smiling. To think of the mask of hypocrisy that 
concealed the rage and remorse that must be gnawing the 
heart of that false girl ! The imperturbable tranquillity and 
unstudied ease that she had displayed after the first out- 
burst of grief that had followed the death of her gallant 
evinced a singular power of self-control. Th^rese watched 
her closely, and nothing in her words or in the expression 
of her countenance betrayed any effort or embarrassment. 
Lying and deceit must be as natural to her as breathing, for 
if she had loved the other man, she must hate Raimond, 
and if she had not loved the other, what a low and repulsive 
creature she must be to have received his advances ! In 
any case she could not but be dangerous to Raimond. As 
she beheld this pretty monster employing all her means of 
seduction to beguile the young man, Therese asked herself 
what end Lydie could have in view. For a single instant 
she had a glimpse of the truth : the creole wedding Ploerne 
the better to be revenged on him ; but she did not allow 
herself to dwell on the idea. She was too simple of purpose 
to grasp this plan in all the depths of its wickedness. She 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


11 ^ 


came to believe that perhaps she was mistaken, after all, 
and that Lydie had told the truth in declaring that the man 
in the garden had taken advantage of her terrors, and that 
she had never received him before that evening. In all the 
confused chaos of her thoughts, however, Therese never 
lost sight of what was now her chief object : to have a talk 
with Raimond, ascertain the exact state of his heart, and 
act in consequence. She found an opportunity to accost 
the sailor while Lydie was engaged with her mother, and 
said to him : 

“ Will you give me a few minutes of your time to-morrow 
morning ? I have something that I would like to say to 
you.” 

The captain looked her steadily in the face, and with a 
melancholy which made the young girl tremble with anguish, 
replied : 

“ Do you insist on it, Therese ? ” 

“ Yes, I insist.” 

“ Well, then, in the garden, at ten o’clock to-morrow 
morning.” 

“ I thank you.” 

Lydie came into the room ; they could say nothing more. 
They had said too much as it was, for the creole’s watch- 
ful eyes had detected their brief understanding. The sus- 
picion came to her mind that Therese was hatching some 
scheme to acquaint Raimond with the truth, and she prom- 
ised herself that she would be on the alert to thwart it. She 
did not allow her fianci to leave her sight for a single in- 
stant, and beheld him take his departure with a feeling of 
much satisfaction. 

When in her chamber, submitting to Leila’s ministrations, 
she freed her heart of its load of rage and malice. How 
long that day of dissimulation and deceit had seemed to 
her ! She was, indeed, an adept in the art of deceiving, 


120 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


but the effort that it cost her ! There, disrobing, like an 
actress divesting herself of her theatrical attire, she com^ 
pensated herself for the long and severe constraint that she 
had imposed upon herself, encouraged by the criminal com- 
plaisance of her black servant to give free rein to her 
tongue. 

“ Did you play well your game with him ? ” the quadroon 
asked her mistress. 

“ I played it until I was tired,” Lydie replied, stretching 
her beautiful arms ; “it was time for him to go away ; 1 
couldn’t have stood it any longer. But he is more crazy 
over me than ever; and when I see him make such a fool of 
himself, I can’t tell which feeling is the stronger in me, 
scorn or hate. He has destroyed the future that I had 
dreamed of, but he shall pay dearly for it.” 

“ He is rich, they say.” 

“ Girani was rich, too, and more nobly born than he. If 
he had married me I should have been a marquise. Oh ! 
that he should have been murdered by that wretch — hand- 
some, strong, and brave as he was ! ” 

“ You must not allow yourself to think of him, mistress.” 

“ What were you saying to me yesterday ? ” Lydie sharply 
rejoined. “You did not counsel forgetfulness then.” 

“ Yesterday I tried to restore to you your courage — I 
saw that 3^ou were overwhelmed and ready to give up. 
But nothing can bring a dead man back to life, you know. 
As we say out there in the islands, let them sleep.” 

“7 am not dead, I am alive ; I have been outraged, I 
have been wounded, and I will repay outrage for outrage, 
wound for wound ! ” 

“ Go to sleep, mistress ; the night will bring you peace. 
Your excitement makes you talk this way.” 

“ Hold your tongue,” Lydie imperiously said. “ Do you 
think 1 am a fool, and do you suppose that I change my mind 


A DEB 7' OF HATRED. I2l 

SO readily ? I have been thinking deeply during the past 
twenty-four hours, and the plan that I have formed is not 
the emanation of a disordered brain. Never have I felt 
more mistress of myself— and that is what makes the matter 
serious. Instead of marrying for love, I intend to marry 
for hate. Do you understand me?” 

The quadroon smiled faintly : “The man will make you 
change your mind. You will go to him with dark thoughts, 
and you will come from his arms with cheerful memories. 
He is a very good-looking man, is Comte Raimond. He 
seems cold, but it won’t do to trust to appearances ; men 
like him are often perfect tigers. You will not know your- 
self when once you shall have felt his claws.” 

“ It will be he who will feel the claws, and that in his 
very heart.” 

“ Go to sleep, mistress ; do not give way so to your feel- 
ings. Let me tuck the clothes about you. There, good- 
night.” 

For a few moments the quadroon moved uneasily about 
the girl’s bed, watching her as she lay there in the shadow 
of the curtains, pale and with glittering eyes ; then with- 
drew to the adjoining room. Lydie gradually yielded her- 
self to slumber, and her sleep was visited by strange 
dreams. 

When she awoke day was beginning to dawn, and the 
chill light was shining into the room. She fought against 
slumber, not wishing to dream again, and lay in her bed, 
reflecting. She asked herself if it would not be better to 
renounce the plan that she had formed. The confused 
vision that she had had during the night, of which she could 
scarcely remember the details, seemed, to the superstitious 
girl from beyond the sea, as a fearful portent. Was it not 
a warning from on high ? She was not pious, she never 
prayed, and yet she believed that she had been visited by 


122 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


a divine manifestation, and for several hours remained in a 
complete state of moral annihilation. All her decision and 
strength of will seemed to have left her, and at that moment 
she would have yielded obedience to any one who had de- 
manded it of her. Had Therese approached her then, she 
might have obtained everything that Lydie had refused to 
grant the day before ; but Therese did not appear, the 
darkness melted away, and with the daylight Mile, de Saint- 
Maurice’s courage returned to her again. She was ashamed 
of her weakness, laughed at herself for having yielded to 
those absurd fears, and promised herself that she would 
make Therese and Raimond pay dearly for the hours of 
suffering that she had endured. There was no longer a 
question in her mind of giving up her plan and renouncing 
her vengeance. She hated Raimond a little more than she 
had hated him the day before, when he had appeared before 
her, so calm and unruffled. Calm ! How could he ever 
know calmness in the future ; he, the murderer, with her 
lover’s blood upon his head ! 

She was walking in the garden when Raimond arrived 
from Beaulieu. She had gathered a bouquet from the bed 
before the house, but had not yet ventured to proceed as 
far as the terrace, beneath the railing of which lay the stone 
that had enabled Girani to scale the balustrade and come 
to her. The sailor was radiant with joy ; she allowed him 
to take her hands and kiss them. Observing that he wore a 
jacket of light cloth, she said to him : 

“ You do not wear your uniform any longer, I see ? ” ^ 

“ Have you forgotten that you made me promise to leave 
the navy upon my return ? I make it a point always to 
keep my promises — my letter of resignation was forwarded 
this morning.” 

She looked at him distrustfully, but his face was smiling ; 
he had spoken without mental reservation. She' wished to 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


123 


probe the heart of her fiance more deeply, and ascertain 
whether or not he had any suspicion as to the possibility of 
her guilt. She said to him : 

I understood yesterday that you and Therese were to 
have a talk this morning.” 

Raimond’s brows contracted in a frown, and with sud- 
den constraint he replied,. “ Yes, she asked me for an 
interview. You know how long and how fondly I have loved 
her. She doubtless wishes to ask my advice upon some point.” 

“ You have good reason to love her,” Lydie observed 
with an angelic air, she is so good, and such a charming 
girl. I, also, love her with all my heart. I have not in all 
the time that I have known her detected in her the first evil 
thought.” 

Raimond looked at his betrothed with deep feeling. She 
seemed to him an angel interceding for the guilty one, and 
Therese’s position appeared impregnable when defended by 
Lydie. 

“Whatever she may say to you, believe ; and whatever 
she may request of you, grant it her,” Mile, de Saint- 
Maurice impudently added. “ If she should ask of you 
anything that is not good and generous, she would have 
ceased to be herself.” 

“ You are an angel ! you have the best and tenderest of 
hearts ! ” Raimond joyfully exclaimed. 

Lydie said to herself : “ Now go to him, if you will. Miss 
Therese, with your tales about me, and see how you will be 
received. ' He will compare your sentiments with mine, and 
we will see who will come out best.” 

Therese appeared upon the door-step at that moment. 
Lydie, first giving Raimond’s arm a gentle squeeze, de- 
tached her own and said to him : 

“ I leave you with her. Listen to what she has to say to 
you as if I were talking to you — you will, won’t you ? ” 


124 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


Her pretty eyes were frank and limpid. They were so 
supplicating that Raimond would have given heaven and 
earth to have them always turned upon him thus. He bent 
over the white hand that was raised toward him as if in a 
caressing entreaty, and intoxicated with delight, followed 
with his gaze the graceful form of the object of his adora- 
tion. He came to himself upon hearing Therese address 
him. 

‘‘ My friend,” she said, “we must return to a subject that 
is painful to us both. Are you ready to do it, and can you 
do it with an unbiased mind ? ” 

“ I am quite ready,” Ploerne replied ; “ but is it neces- 
sary ? ” 

“ It is necessary, and more than necessary ; it is indis- 
pensable,” the young girl resolutely replied. “ I cannot 
bear that you should have a bad opinion of me, and that is 
why I requested this interview. I seem not to live, now 
that your eyes are averted from me — I must reconquer 
your confidence and your esteem. 1 have been too un- 
happy for these last two days. I cannot endure it longer.” 
She had gradually gained force and spirit while speaking, 
and her cheeks were burning, her eyes were bright with 
feeling. She uttered her last words with a trembling voice, 
and, overcome by her emotion, burst into tears. 

“ Come, come, Therese, be more reasonable,” the sailor 
gently .said. “I am not reproaching you — my friendship 
for you has not decreased. I pity you sincerely. If my 
eyes were averted from you, it was from fear of causing you 
embarrassment, but there is no severity in my heart toward 
you. I am not here to be your judge; and besides, my 
affection, that has endured so long, pleads for you, and my 
only feeling toward you is one of kindness and compa.ssion.” 

“ Kindness, compassion ! ” sobbed Therese. “ Can it be 
that I hear such words as those from your lips ? Can 


A DEBT OF HA TEED. 


125 


those be the sentiments that I inspire in you ? You might 
as well tell me that you despise me — and yet it was kindly 
meant by you, and another than you would certainly have 
been more severe to me. And still I cannot bear to think 
that I have sunk so deeply in your esteem ; I wish to con- 
vince you that I am not unworthy. I must defend myself, 
I must exonerate myself.” 

“ Defend yourself, poor child, if you will,” Ploerne 
replied ; “but as for exonerating yourself, alas !” 

Therese made a despairing gesture : “ And yet, if I were 
to swear to you that I am not unworthy, that I have done 
no wrong ” 

“ Swear not, Therese. If, for your peace of mind, I must 
tell you that I believe what you assure me of, I will so tell you.” 

“ But you will not believe what you say. Your words 
will be dictated by kindness, so as not to drive me to de- 
spair. That is not what I want — I must convince you of 
the truth. I must make you admit that you place confidence 
in my proofs ” 

“ In your proofs ? ” Ploerne sadly interrupted. “ What 
are your proofs compared to mine ? Where will be your 
assertions, or your oaths, even, when I come to weigh them 
in the balance against facts? Can you deny the evi- 
dence ? ” 

He took her by the hand, and pointing to the terrace 
that lay in the sunlight before them beneath the trailing 
vines of clematis and jasminCj said : “ Were you not there, 
at the place of assignation, when I came in the place of him 
whom you were awaiting? Were you there or not ? Come, 
speak.” 

Her unreasonable obstinacy in atfempting to justify her- 
self had caused him a momentary irritation. He grasped 
the girl’s fingers firmly with his own, and with eyes riveted 
upon her fgice, gazed at her sternly. She, with bowed 


126 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


head and eyelids drooping, as if desirous of seeing nothing, 
neither the things that were about her nor him who was 
questioning her, made no answer, terrified as she was at the 
thought of the words she would have to speak, exasperated 
at the thought of remaining silent. He let go her hand, 
and in a calmer voice, in which was audible a slight tone of 
disdain, said : 

“ You have nothing to say, alas ! you have to admit the 
truth. Come, it will be better to attempt no further resist- 
ance ; accept the responsibility that you have incurred. By 
doing this you may count upon the sympathy and the kind- 
ness of those who are near to you.” 

Therese’s eyelids swiftly rose and she proudly lifted her 
head. Ploerne’s irritation had restored to her her self- 
control. His scorn made her retort upon him hotly : 

“ When you found me at the rendezvous, were you quite 
certain that I was there for my own sake ? ” 

The words had .scarcely passed her lips when she saw 
their terrible import. Raimond was white as death. He 
looked at Therese angrily, and with a severity that he made 
no effort to disguise, said to her : 

“You are accusing others, now, to prove your own inno- 
cence. If you were not there for your own sake, for whose 
sake, then, were you there ? ” 

“ Am I the only person in the house ?” she stammered. 
“ Are there not other women ? Might I not have in- 
tended to surprise some one of the servant-girls ? Is not any 
supposition preferable to the horrible doubt that condemns 
me ? ” 

Ploerne’s lips were clenched so tightly that his words 
scarcely escaped his mouth. 

“ Do not equivocate,” he said. “ You know it was no 
one of the servants — your terror when you saw me, your 
prayers, your admissions-^for you are not to forget that you 


127 


A DEBT OF HA TEED. 

made admissions to me — everything proved the perilous sit- 
uation you were in. There were in the house but two per- 
sons upon whom suspicion could fall : Lydie and you. I am 
speaking to you frankly, and I intend that this time there 
shall be no misunderstanding between us — if you insist 
upon your innocence you must denounce L3^die as the 
guilty one. It was one or the other — which ? She or you ? 
Answer. You claim to be a religious girl ; before your God 
I call upon you to answer — was it sbe ? " 

He was so terrible in his rage and anguish that Therese 
was alarmed. She cried : 

“ No ! It was not she ! ” 

‘‘ What are you trying to make me believe, then ? ” 

She wrung her hands in an agony of horror. “I have 
done nothing wrong. Nothing! I swear it — nothing! 
except, perhaps, that I loved too well.” 

“ Loved whom ?” he roughly asked. 

She sorrowfully shook her head. How could she tell 
him at that moment, when he was subjecting her to sucli 
cru^l torture ; when she was enduring that torture for the 
love of him ? She continued : 

“ Oh ! may you never know how unjust you have been 
and how unhappy I am ! I swear to you that I am inno- 
cent — can you not believe me, who have never lied ? ” 

“ Think of the situation,” he cried, in a transport of de- 
spair ; “ there is no other issue ; it is you or it is she. If I 
believe your word I condemn her.” He made a gesture 
that was fearful in its menace : “ Have you been deceiving 
me, you and .she, between you ? Have I been all wrong, 
ever since my arrival ? Have you been trifling with my 
feelings, my hopes and fears ? If it is so — but we will 
soon find out.” At the top of his voice, regardless of be- 
ing heard by Mme. de Saint-Maurice, he shouted, “ Lydie, 
Lydie — come here ! ” 


128 


A DEBT OF I/A TEED. 


“ What are you going to do ? ” asked Therese. 

‘‘ I am going to bring you face to face and compel you to 
tell me the truth.” 

“ Oh ! no, not that ! ” the young girl besought him. 

“ Why not ? ” he harshly answered. “ I have had enough 
of this double dealing ; let there be an end to shuffling and 
to lying. I mean to learn what I wish to know — and you 
need blame no one but yourself for the result.” 

Lydie had descended into the garden and was coming 
toward them with a tranquil face and candid eyes. 
Therese, with horror, watched her as she drew near. Was 
she, then, about to bring to her hopeless destruction ? She 
looked at Raimond ; his face was lividly white, his hands 
were shaking, and he trampled upon the ground in his 
agony of expectation. She advanced toward him a step, 
her hands joined as if in prayer. 

“You are beginning to be afraid, are you?” he said, 
with a terrible laugh. 

Oh ! yes, she was afraid ; to the very bottom of her 
stricken heart she was afraid for him, even for Lydie, for 
she saw that Ploerne was wrought up to a pitch where he 
was capable of anything. There was murder in his looks. 
She grasped him by the arm and said : 

“ Send her back ! Take her away — but let her not come 
here, I beseech you ! ” 

“ Are you afmid to hear what she has to say ? ” 

“ Yes, I am afraid.” 

“ Then you know that she would compel you to con- 
fess ? ” 

“ Yes, I know^ — I believe that she would compel me to 
confess. Let me not meet her just now, it is all that I ask 
you.” 

“ You were trying to deceive me, then?” 

“ Yes, my only object was to deceive you.” 

gilently and sadly he contemplated her f®r a moment, 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


129 


then, almost in a whisper, as if it were a supreme concession 
to his old-time affection, he said : 

“You have my forgiveness.” 

She endeavored to grasp his hand. He withdrew it 
gently, and advancing toward Lydie, who was now only a 
few steps from them, left Therese crushed beneath the bur- 
den of her bitter martyrdom, and yet not regretful that she 
had accepted it. As she came up with Ploerne, Mile, de 
Saint-Maurice said to him in such a tone that she might be 
heard : 

“ You are through with your consultation with Therese ? 
What was the important subject that you had to discuss ? 
I hope that the conference was an amicable one.?” 

Raimond, slipping Lydie’s arm within his own, replied : 

“ It was nothing ; we are perfectly agreed.” 

Nothing ! Burning tears coursed down Therese’s cheeks. 
She sank upon a bench, and after those two fruitless at- 
tempts to save that “ nothing,” which was neither more nor 
less than her own happiness and Raimond’s future, lifting 
her thoughts to Heaven, she resigned herself to bear her 
burden. 

She did not show herself during the day, and at evening, 
as they were about to sit down to dinner, Mme. de Saint- 
Maurice said : 

“I have just had a very strange conversation with The- 
rese. She came looking for me in my room a while ago and 
told me that she has under consideration certain plans of 
which, it seems, she formerly spoke to you, my dear nephew, 
and is making preparations to leave for Paris and enter a 
convent there.” 

“ Ah, so she is going to be a nun,” Lydie calmly said. 
“ I think that she is right. Her vocation lies that way.” 

“ None the less, it is very sad,” said Aunt Saint-Maurice. 
And she added, as the servant threw open the door of the 
dining-room, “ Let’s go in to dinner, my children.” 


PART SECOND. 


V. 

S AMUEL BERNHEIMER was giving a ball. His 
daughter, the Princess Feretti, assisted by her husband, 
a good-looking young fellow with the face of an Italian 
tenor, was doing the honors of the great mansion in the 
Avenue Montaigne. All the celebrities of Paris, the titled 
and the wealthy, the artistic and the sporting worlds, were col- 
lected in the sumptuous rez-de-chauss^e^ where six vast salons, 
opening from one into another, afford the most admirable 
scene for a grand reception that ever fancy of spendthrift 
banker dreamed of. The grand salon Louis XIV that forms 
the center of the hotel, with its lofty ceiling, decorated bal- 
conies, and lantern adorned with the rare paintings of Le- 
brun, purchased at the time when the chateau of Prefont 
was demolished, gives one of the most imposing effects 
imaginable. The orchestra, stationed for that evening in 
the dome, sent out its sonorous waves of melody upon the 
dazzling scene, illuminated by the electric light. Men and 
women turned and whirled in the dance amid the rustle of 
silks and satins and the glancing display of brilliant color, 
red coats and black coats, dresses light and dresses dark, 
blond and brunette locks floating on the air as the fair ones 
revolved in the waltz, gleaming shoulders, eyes alight with 
the intoxication of pleasure, and surrounding them all an 
animated and laughing throng, watching the antics of the 
motley crowd. 


130 


A DEBT OF DA TEED. 131 

Standing beside her father at the entrance of the suite, 
the princess, a woman distinguished for her attractive 
homeliness, received the newcomers with a smile and a 
pleasant word, for people were coming still, although it was 
two o’clock in the morning. The fete was not only one of 
those fashionable events at which every Parisian who has 
any claim to recognition is bound to be present ; it was also 
a great event in the world of finance. The function that 
evening was to celebrate by a grand demonstration the list- 
ing on the Bourse of the shares of the Comptoir Frangais^ 
the newly formed company to which the world of society 
had accorded its patronage. Every duke in the peerage 
had purchased shares and the clergy had given their bene- 
diction to the offices. Money was flowing in by millions ; 
the board of directors embraced the most illustrious names 
of the French aristocracy.. The openly admitted object of 
the new company was to compete with the great Jew bank- 
ing firms, and also, by means of the great wealth that the 
bank would have at its disposal, to afford assistance to the 
political schemes of the royalist party. The programme, 
therefore, was a two-fold one ; to give check to Israel in 
its operations in the market, and to favor a restoration of 
the monarchy. 

The founders, having to choose a manager for their en- 
terprise, had thought that they could not do better than ad- 
dress themselves to Samuel Bernheimer, who was a Jew by 
birth, it is true, but a convert to Christianity ; connected as 
he was by intimate ties with the fashionable and the sport- 
ing worlds, he would exercise a powerful influence upon the 
society which was to swell with its cash the Catholico-mo- 
narchical strong-box. It was in celebration of the success- 
ful floating of this great undertaking that the manager of 
the Comptoir Frangais had thrown open his splendid hotel 
to his friends and fellow shareholders. And so it happened 


132 


A DEBT OE //A TEED. 


that this entertainment, which was an event of events in 
fashionable society, offered to the observing spectator a 
spectacle of the most astounding. 

Seated near the entrance of the grand sa/on, and protected 
from the incursions of the dancers by a marble column, two 
young men were conversing in an undertone. They were 
both elegantly dressed and there was a strong resemblance 
in form and even in feature, owing to the similarity in the cut 
of their hair and mustache, and yet they were very unlike 
in birth, social condition, and habits. One was the Marquis 
de Roquiere, and the occupations in which he spent 
most of his time were fencing and horseback riding. The 
name of the other individual was Jules Bricolier, and he 
eked out his employment as secretary to Samuel Bernheimer 
by that of writing for the newspapers. Inconspicuous for 
his talent, envious by reason of his impotency, and ill- 
natured because it was his nature so to be, Bricolier was the 
perfect personification of the man who has failed to make 
his mark and has decided to make for himself a place, cost 
what it may. Beneath a correct and pleasing exterior this 
youth concealed a low vulgarity of taste. In all Paris there 
existed no curled and perfumed rascal who was more 
charmingly dangerous than he. He reminded one of an 
unwashed, brutal hand encased in a pearl-gray glove. 

The marquis and the journalist had met at the fencing 
room, for that pursuit to which Roquiere addicted himself 
for enjoyment’s sake Bricolier practiced as a profession. 
He was a bravo as well as a penny-a-liner. The sword 
often had to conclude that which the pen had commenced, 
and ink was mingled with blood. It was Bricolier who 
spoke, as they sat there behind the marble column : 

“ Are you enlisted in the great financial crusade. Mar- 
quis ? ” 

“Why do you ask me that?” replied Roquiere. “You 


A DEBT OP HATRED. 133 

know that I have no money — only just enough to let me 
jog along through life. You see, I can’t speculate.” 

“ Why not, if you are gambling on a sure thing ? ” 

“ Does any one ever have a sure thing ? ” 

Yes, when one is in the game with a man who knows his 
own play and the play of the rest of them.” 

“ And that man is Samuel Bernheimer, I suppose ?” 

“ Yes, he is Samuel Bernheimer, my illustrious employer. 

I have just raked in my little income of thirty thousand 
' francs on the last deal, and now I am going to give up my 
horse, who is growing old, and lead the life of a peaceful 
bourgeois, looking down upon my old friends from the 
height of my prosperity.” 

“And that is the beginning of earthly bliss,” said the 
marquis, with a laugh. 

“ Yes,” the journalist replied, in a more serious tone ; 

“ what is there more agreeable for a man who has always 
X been looked down on than to look down on others in his 
turn ? ” 

“ I am afraid that there is something wrong about you, 
Bricolier,” said Roquiere, looking at his interlocutor rather 
superciliously. 

I think a good deal as you do. Marquis,” the journalist 
replied with a faint smile. “ But if you had in your desk 
all the bills that I paid when I was almost in a starving 
condition, you would not take such a placid view of things, 
regarded from your standpoint, nor such a surprised one, 
regarded from mine. You reason like a young man of : 
family who has never had any more serious occupation, 
than to spend his old man’s money ; I am talking like a 
veteran of the great army of grumblers, who beholds at 
last the hour approaching when victory is to be his and 
there is to be a division of the booty. That’s how the 
matter stands, my friend.” 


134 


A DEBT OF DA TEED. 


“So you think that this affair of Comptoir Fran^ais 
is going to be successful ? ” 

“Yes, Marquis, there can’t be the slightest doubt of it; 
at all events it will last long enough to enable those, who 
have gone into it with the intention of taking their profit 
when they see it and not of changing the axis of the finan- 
cial world to get out and hand over their shares to the 
blockheads who are fated to become their final owners.” 

“ And those blockheads that you speak of, who may they 
be ? ” 

“ The people of the world of fashion.” 

“ You don’t tell me so ! Why, those people are my 
friends, my associates, my relations.” 

“Bah ! I hope you are not going to shout, ‘To arms ! 
my brothers are being slaughtered ! ’ ” Bricolier interrupted 
laughingly. “ Take the advice that I give you and use it to 
your own profit, but I know that it is very simple of me to tell 
you to hold your tongue. Go and publish to the world what 
1 have told you — shout it upon the house-tops. Not a soul 
of those to whom you address yourself will believe you ; they 
won’t even condescend to listen to you. The shares went 
up a hundred francs to-day on the Bourse ; there will be as 
great an advance to-morrow^ and on the succeeding days, 
until the smash comes. If you should advise a share- 
holder to sell he would look on you as a false friend and 
would accuse you of trying to keep him from making 
money. These people have seen the boom, and it has 
turned their heads.” 

“ And then the enterprise may turn out well after all,” 
said Roquiere. 

“ There is so much in luck ! ” the journalist cheerfully 
observed. 

The marquis had ceased to listen ; he was looking with 
all his eyes toward the entrance of the apartment. 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


135 


“ Ah ! here comes the Comtesse de Ploern6,” Bricolier 
exclaimed. “ What are you blushing for, Marquis ? Aha, 
my master, there is where the weak spot in your armor 
is ! You are not a speculator, you are a lover — there’s 
no use denying it. All Paris is aware that you are con- 
suming away with a flame as chaste as it is lasting. She 
is a mighty pretty woman, too. You display a great deal of 
taste.” 

“ Bricolier, you are insupportable,” testily said De Ro- 
qui^re, who had become very pale ; “ and you allow your- 
self licenses — 

“ Come ! you know very well that I like you and that 1 
would not wilftngly say anything to offend you. Wait a 
minute while I take down an account of the divine com- 
tesse’s toilette for the paper. Gown of Nile-green peau-de- 
soie^ trimmed with silver lace. My ! how it sets to her 
form — and just look at her, Marquis — two hundred thousand 
francs worth of pearls and diamonds on her handsome 
shoulders and her pretty head if there’s a penny’s worth ! 
See, there’s my distinguished employer leaving his family 
to go and give his arm to the fair Lydie. Let’s go and 
make our bow to her.” 

Samuel Bernheimer had given his arm to Mme. de Ploern^ 
and was making his way through the throng, attended by 
a buzz of admiration and curiosity. Raimond followed a 
couple of steps behind them, smiling and exchanging saluta- 
tion and hand-shakes with his friends. When they reached 
the door of the Oriental salon the banker halted. 

“ Where would you prefer to hold your court, Comtesse ? ” 
he inquired, with an obsequious smile. 

“ It makes no difference ; here will do as well as else- 
where,” Lydie calmly answered. 

It was in this delightful nook, the decorations of which 
displayed a luxurious wealth of fancy, that the banker gen- 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


136 

erally held his smoking parliaments. A narrow staircase, 
leading to a low gallery with carved, ogival arches, served 
to connect the Oriental salon with the floor above. Great 
lanterns of various colors, like gigantic flowers, flooded the 
apartment with mellow light. The sound of the music and 
the hum of the voices were lost in the heavy folds of the 
rich portieres. The dancers came into the room in pairs, 
looking for a tranquil spot, then again, attracted by the 
flashing lights and the tumult of the orchestra, departed, to 
be lost in the ocean of guests. A numerous escort had fol- 
lowed Samuel and the comtesse to their retreat ; Lydie had 
scarce more than taken her seat when she saw herself sur- 
rounded and commenced with honeyed smiles to receive 
her courtiers. 

As the banker had said, the young woman was going to 
hold a court. She had been married and had made her ap- 
pearance in society a year before, and since that time the 
fame of her beauty and her elegance had been constantly 
increasing. No one ever thought of alluding to her as 
“ handsome Mine, de Ploerne ; ” this title, that is made use 
of too frequently and inconsiderately of these late years, 
would have seemed almost a slur when applied to her. She 
was on a higher plane than that, and plain Comtesse de 
Ploerne, without qualifying epithet, conveyed more mean- 
ing than the longest dithyrambs in the newspapers, ad- 
dressed to ladies whose charms are on the wane. It would 
have been necessary to invent some new title to properly 
express her marvelous beauty, and as she could not be 
anointed empress, or queen of beauty, she was designated 
simply by her title : “ The Comtesse.” That told the story ; 
there was but one and that one was she. 

Ploerne had undergone no change ; he was still the same 
impassioned and simple-hearted man, who beheld every- 
thing through Lydie’s optics. His only function in life ap- 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


137 


peared to be to carry out his young wife’s every fancy. 
He watched her with a tender gaze, sharing her pride in 
her successes, rejoicing in her charms, ready to do anything 
to afford her a moment’s pleasure ; almost fatherly in his 
protecting manner toward the spoiled child. The marquis 
and Bricolier had at last succeeded in making their way to 
where the comtesse was seated* and bending humbly before 
her, they paid homage to her sovereignty. She had recog- 
nized them with gracious indifference by a slight nod of the 
head and then resumed her conversation with Bernheimer, 
quite unconscious, to all appearances, of Roquiere’s forlorn 
expression. The journalist made a half wheel, and facing 
the marquis, said, with a bantering air: 

“You seem to be having your labor for your pains, my 
dear fellow — and so am I, too, for that matter. Old Mon- 
ey-bags gets it all. Shall I give you a bit of good advice? 
Cultivate the husband.” 

While this was going on Lydie was saying, behind her 
fan, in a manner to be heard by no one save the banker : 

“ Then you are satisfied with the way things went on the 
Bourse to-day?” 

“ I think that you will share my satisfaction with me ; 
you are two hundred thousand francs ahead.” 

“ What, in such a short time ? ” 

“ It is the same time that it took other folks to lose the 
money. But your husband has made more than you.” 

Lydie’s white forehead was furrowed by a little frown, 
and a hard look came into her eyes. 

“ I give him the information that you supply to me,” she 
said. “ It is a lucky thing for him that you are there to ad- 
vise him. If you should chance to make a mistake some 
day ” 

“ But I shall not make a mistake. Just think, I have you 
to look out for — your comfort, your luxury, your happiness, 


A DEBT OF DA TEED. 


13S 

and that is all so dear to me ! If I could only tell you ” 

He became very red in the face, and the words died 
away upon his lips. She interrupted him in a dry tone of 
voice : 

“ Look out, Bernheimer, you are going to say something 
foolish." She looked at the banker with an air of disdain- 
ful irony, arose and passed* in front of him; he followed 
her, greatly out of countenance. 

I am going to have a dance," she said with a smile, and 
turning to Roquiere : “ Marquis, I believe it is your turn." 

As Maurice de Roquiere stepped forward radiantly and 
offered his arm to conduct her to the floor, she said to 
Bernheimer, “ I leave my husband with you ; you can com- 
fort each other.” 

The banker’s face did not express gratification, but the 
young woman was already out of hearing in the adjoining 
salon. Ploerne had instinctively withdrawn, and leaning 
against the casing of a door, was watching the couples as 
they whirled in the swift movements of the waltz. The 
banker cast a scornful glance upon the dreamer and fol- 
lowed in the comtesse’s wake. Raimond seemed to be 
watching what was going on, but the vague forms of the 
dancers had no place within his mind. He was mentally a 
thousand miles away from the ball and the luxurious man- 
sion where the festivities were going on. He beheld another 
salo7i^ and it was the calm and peaceful one in his own 
house ; the mellow light of the lamp and the cheering 
warmth of a good fire made it the very place to pass a 
tranquil evening in. Mme. de Saint-Maurice was between 
sleeping and waking, resting on the downy cushions of a 
small sofa; and seated by the table, busied with some fine 
embroidery work, just sufficient to keep her white fingers 
occupied, was Lydie. He, making a pretence of reading a 
pamphlet, was furtively watching and losing himself in 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


139 


contemplation of the charming scene. Not a sound to dis- 
turb the silence save the monotonous ticking of the clock — 
and what peace of mind, what security of heart were there ! 

Things had gone on thus during the early period of 
their marriage, and then suddenly their life had changed. 
Society had seized them in its grasp, and had never let 
them go again. Those charming evenings by the fireside 
had gradually grown more and more infrequent, and now 
it was an exception whenever they remained at home. On 
such occasions the comtesse would take no pains to conceal 
her ennui. She would display her sulky gloom on every 
fauteuil in the drawing-room. Mme. de Saint-Maurice, 
happy to have her daughter’s company for a few hours, 
would make a strenuous effort to keep up a conversation 
with Raimond in order to infuse a little gayety into Lydie’s 
sullen humor, but the efforts of husband and of mother 
were alike of no avail, and the pretty mondaine gaped and 
yawned with no one to comfort her, suddenly overcome by 
the fatigue of her former balls. Without taking pains to 
conceal her sleepiness, Mme. de Ploerne would finally take 
refuge in her chamber, where Leila would devote long 
hours to the ceremonies of the toilet. 

Since he had been Lydie’s husband, Raimond had done 
all that in him lay to become acquainted with the character 
and disposition of his young wife. In the earlier days his 
passion had blinded him and he had been incapable of 
reasoning. W rapped up as he was in the delight of possessing 
her whom he loved, any other sen.sation than that of the 
rapture of his passion was beyond him. He had abandoned 
himself to it with transport, and his infatuation had been 
such that he had deceived himself with the idea that it was 
returned. He had not been able to keep up his illusion, 
however. Her coldness had chilled him and he had been 
forced to admit to himself that Lydie’s sentiments were 


140 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


entirely different in their nature from those which he ex- 
perienced for her. All his warmth never succeeded in 
melting that beautiful snow-drift, and the more he strove to 
kindle her with his fire, to penetrate her with his passion, 
the colder and more impassive he found her. 

Raimond had bitterly said to himself, “ She does not 
love me ! ” Then, taking a more indulgent view, he had 
added, “ Perhaps she loves me, but not so much as I love 
her, and she seems wanting in affection, owing to my excess 
of tenderness.” He feared to weary Lydie if he gave way 
to his overmastering passion. He tried to be calculating, 
he made it a study to be moderate, when he would have 
wished to abandon himself to her without reserve. He was 
very unhappy, but the constraint that he laid upon himself, 
instead of diminishing his love, served only to augment it. 
He judged himself and brought himself in guilty of his in- 
ability to give her pleasure. He never uttered a word of 
reproach against his wife for her indifference ; he was the 
one at fault ; he, and he only. She was the sovereign 
divinity from whom came all good things and in whom was 
embraced every perfection. 

He looked about in quest of means that might render 
him more agreeable in her sight. He had noticed Lydie’s 
liking for the refinements of luxury, and he made it his 
pleasure to surround her with the most attractive objects 
that he could find. He spent large sums of money in 
furnishing the handsome mansion in the Rue Rembrandt 
into which they moved ; he desired that his idol should 
have a shrine that should be worthy of her. She accepted 
everything at his hands, equally without admiration and 
without gratitude. She seemed to think it the most natural 
thing in the world that he should tax his ingenuity to de- 
light her eyes. 

She acquired a habit of spending money lavishly upon 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 14 1 

fantastic whimsies, purchasing the rarest and most costly 
objects only to destroy them with the unconscious mischief 
that might have been expected from a young savage. In 
one of her fits of temper she had broken and thrown into 
the fire a beautiful fan, painted by Watteau, destroying a 
priceless chef-d'otiivre as she would have destroyed some 
trifle that cost only twenty-five sous. She had had a poodle 
that had ruled the house for two weeks. She would let 
him climb upon the chairs and sofas in her drawing-room, 
that had been newly covered with Gobelin tapestry, and, to 
teach him to fetch and carry, would throw him her hand- 
kerchief trimmed with point d’Angleterre. Then she had 
wearied of the favorite, and in cold blood had one morning 
caused him to be given a dose of poison in the court-yard. 
The pleasure that she seemed to take in the mutilation and 
destruction of rare and expensive things was the more 
astonishing, coming as it did from a young woman who had 
been brought up in poverty and who, one would think, 
would have exhibited more respect than another for the 
elegancies of her new life. 

Her mother could not conceal her astonishment, and 
Raimond had had to interfere to keep Mme. de Saint- 
Maurice from giving her daughter a piece of her mind. 
The old lady had been quartered in one of the wings of the 
hotel with an outlook to the south and a charming view 
over the gardens, where, for the sake of peace and repose, 
she had resigned herself to live in silence. Her material 
well-being was the chief object of her care ; therefore she 
had retreated promptly from the fray, allowing the responsi- 
bility for Lydie’s disorderly ways to rest on the shoulders 
of her son-in-law. This disorder did not extend to the 
service of the household, over which Leila continued to 
maintain her high-handed authority. Everything that Mme. 
de Ploerne had nothing to do with went on regularly, 


142 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


though expensively ; but their way of living, as the comtesse 
meant to have it and as her husband allowed her to have 
it, demanded an income far larger than that which Raimond 
had at his disposal, and it was not long before his fortune 
becameso seriously impaired that he saw that in six months, 
at the rate they were going on, he would be completely 
ruined. The prospect had frightened him. He had set 
his wits to work to discover a way, not to modify their 
habits and expenses, but to find means to enable them to 
continue their present style of living. He could not endure 
the thought of telling Lydie that she must economize ; he 
could see the scowl upon her pretty forehead and the pout 
of her charming lips when he should come to speak to her 
of retrenchments, not in the common expenditure of the 
household, but in her own private budget ; and it suited 
him better to have recourse to every other expedient rather 
than face the displeasure of his Divinity. 

It was about this time that Bernheimer had made his 
appearance upon the scene. Raimond had known him 
since childhood ; Samuel was godfather to Therese. 
When the partnership with M, Letourneur had been dis- 
solved, for the reason that Samuel’s enterprising business 
methods were not in touch with the rather old-fashioned 
ways of Therese’s father, the relations of the two partners 
had remained undisturbed. Bernheimer had launched out 
into enormous speculations, which had proved successful, 
while Letourneur had continued to carry on the bank under 
the same easy-going methods as his father before him. 
Samuel had taken his position as a member of a fast set and 
had adopted the habits of his associates, exaggerating them 
and out Heroding Herod, as tyros are wont to do ; but he 
had known how to make the most of his money and his 
prodigality had opened for him the doors of the best 
society. He had flattered the great noblemen who set the 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. I43 

fashion at Paris, catering for their amusement and laying 
them under obligations to him, and thanks to their protec- 
tion, had succeeded in gaining admission to the Jockey Club 
after being black-balled only three times. 

It will be seen, therefore, that he was a gentleman of 
note, and his name was frequently mentioned with lauda- 
tion in the newspapers. He made some attempts at gal- 
lantry and paid a round price for his experience. He had 
mastered the art of dress and always appeared in apparel 
suited to his form and face. He had invented a style of 
carrying himself ; he was not like every one ; he was quite 
a man of mark. When he made his way from the grand 
stand to the paddock, attired in a well-fitting suit of gray, 
with a little bouquet in his button-hole, white gaiters over 
his shoes, an artistically knotted cravat about his thick 
neck and his silk hat shining like a looking-glass, he had a 
youthful chic about him that went well with his sturdy 
form and his red face. His friends of the club familiarly 
addressed him as Bern; the “little women” called him 
Sam and asked him for tips, which he never failed to give 
them conscientiously. People could not help liking him 
and every one desired to be on terms of intimacy with him, 
and yet he had a way of setting men down when he wanted 
to, transfixing them with his cold, sharp eyes, which brought 
him back again to his position as a millionaire; a good 
fellow, but whose good nature it would not do to presume 
upon too far. From the time when Ploerne and his wife 
had taken up their new quarters at Paris he had been very 
attentive to Lydie, and that he might enjoy more cordial 
relations with her, had assumed an air of paternal kindness 
designed to reassure the husband. On the occasion of his 
first visit to the Hotel Letourneur, the banker had been sur- 
prised not to see Therese there. The Saint-Maurice ladies 
had returned from Beaulieu to Paris and the, marriage was to 


144 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


take place in about two weeks’ time ; they had not had time 
to attend to the furnishing of the new hotel that the Comte de 
Ploerne had purchased, so Bernheimer found them living 
in Therese’s house, in Therese’s absence. Thereupon Aunt 
Saint-Maurice, with the artlessness of her ignorance, had ex- 
plained how her niece had allowed her vocation for a re- 
ligious life to get the better of her, to the great grief of her 
relations, and had gone and imprisoned herself in the con- 
vent of the Ladies of the Passion, to undergo a year’s 
novitiate before abandoning the world. While Mme. de 
Saint-Maurice was talking with her usual volubility and 
kindness, Bernheimer was watching Lydie and was struck 
by the hard, impassive expression of the creole’s face. 
There was not a trace of regret or pity ; nothing, only the 
most complete insensibility. With the shrewdness of a 
man accustomed to inve.stigate things below their surface 
and not to accept as true the first explanation that was 
given him, Samuel scented a mystery in Therese’s sudden 
change of plans and in Lydie’s almost hostile silence. He 
made them give him the address of the convent to which 
Mile. Letourneur had retired, and promised himself to go 
there and seek a solution of the enigma. She was his god- 
daughter, and it was his duty to look after her. The banker 
felt his heart touched beneath the shield of egotism which 
usually protected it against sudden impressions, but he fore- 
saw, from the first mornent, that there would be some advan- 
tage to be gained by him from the trouble that Lydie’s 
attitude had betrayed. Raimond entered the room at this 
juncture and Samuel was again struck by the utter lack of 
interest upon her face. As when, before, mention had been 
made of Therese, her countenance remained a mask of ice 
upon beholding her fianc^ ; he was the lover — smiling, 
anxious to please ; she, indifferent, disdainful, and wearied. 
Like a flash Bernheimer saw how the land lay between the 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 145 

husband and wife that were to be, and he conceived the 
most flattering hopes. 

The next day he turned his steps toward the Rue Saint- 
Jacques, where the community of the Ladies of La Pas- 
sion were lodged in an old hotel standing in the garden, 
near the place Denfert, only a couple of steps from the 
Madelonnettes. He rang the bell and asked the sister at the 
gate if he might speak to Mile. Letourneur, and being 
shown into a large, cold, stone-floored room, wainscoted in 
old oak and having for its only ornaments a Virgin with a 
bleeding heart facing on" the wall a Christ dying on the 
cross, he waited, tramping up and down the apartment to 
keep himself warm. Presently a light step was heard upon 
the stone floor, a door opened, and the banker, with sor- 
rowful amazement, beheld Therese in her uniform of gray 
with trimmings of blue, wearing upon her head the distinct- 
ive white head-dress of the sisterhood. She was rather pale 
and did her best to greet her visitor with a smile, but tears 
were in her eyes. Godfather and goddaughter stood for 
a moment eyeing each other silently ; then Samuel got the 
better of his agitation, and taking the girl by the hand, con- 
ducted her to the window to get a better look at her. 

“ How comes it, my dear child, that I find you here and 
in this dress?” he said. “ And why, did you not consult 
me ? Why did you not give me a word of warning ? Tell 
me what has happened ; what is the reason that has 
brought you here ? ” 

Therese was embarrassed by his questions ; she inter- 
rupted him and said, in a cheerful voice, “You know, dear 
godfather, that I have always had a bent toward the life 
of religion. I have resisted the call up to the present time, 
but it has proved too strong for me. That is all there is 
about it. I am very tranquil and quite happy here ; please, 
therefore, do not let yourself be troubled about me.” 


146 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


“ But I am troubled awfully ! ” Beniheimer exclaimed. 
“To think that you should be in a convent, and one 
in which the regulations are so strict ; a girl like you, 
only eighteen years old, who has been accustomed to every 
comfort and are not strong ! Why is it, Therese ; tell me, 
why is it? There is no use talking to me of vocation ; yes, 
yes, I know — Ploerne said something to me on that .score, 
but 1 am not to be put off with reasons like that. They an- 
swer very well to tell to strangers for whom you do not care, 
but the true reason, the one that you give to those who love 
you, tell me what that is ?” 

Samuel had not taken his eyes off his goddaughter while 
he was speaking ; he saw her start at the mention of 
Ploerne’s name ; she paled visibly beneath her white cap, 
and there was a pained expression in her eyes. Could it 
be Ploerne who was the cause of this sacrifice ? In any 
event, Therese’s agitation afforded Bernheimer a clew that 
was not to be neglected. He resumed : 

“ I paid a visit to your Aunt Saint-Maurice yesterday and 
found her and her daughter living in your house. They 
gave me an explanation similar to your o\yn, adding all sorts 
of regrets — Lydie especially. She seems to be very fond 
of you ” 

At these words there was the same start, as if a finger had 
been laid upon a fresh wound ; the same pallor, with, in ad- 
dition, a flash from the eyes, and it became clear to Samuel 
that Therese’s determination had been due, in part, at least, 
to Raimond and Lydie. He determined to carry his inves- 
tigations further, and again pressing upon the sore spot, 
said : “ Your cousin was greatly distressed by the thought 
that she is to marry Raimond and that you will not be 
there to share her happiness. I should not be surprised if 
^he came to see you to beg you to leave your retreat, even if 
only for a single day.” 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 147 

Therese made an imploring gesture, and endeavoring to 
conceal her trouble. 

“ Do not endeavor to disturb me in my solitude,” she 
said. “ I wish to forget the world and be forgotten by it.” 
She could not, however, refrain from asking, in a trembling 
voice, “ Did not M. de Ploerne join my cousin in her re- 
quest that I should be present at their marriage ? ” 

“ No,” said Samuel, “and I am free to confess that I was 
surprised by his coolness. He used to be very fond of you, 
and 1 looked for a more brotherly feeling from him ; but he 
is in love and has eyes only for the dear one.” 

“ I hope with all my heart that he may be happy,” said 
Therese, dropping her eyes. 

“ Let us hope so,” said the banker, “ but it won’t do to 
raise our hopes too high.” 

“ Why do you say that ? ” exclaimed Mile. Letourneur, 
the sudden lifting of whose eyelids unmasked a look of de- 
vouring interest. 

“ Because, while he seems to me to be very much in love 
with her, I do not think that she has the least bit of love for 
him. I never saw such fond affection received with such 
complete indifference. Did you never notice it when you 
were living with them ? ” 

She answered his question by another, murmuring, “ Do 
we ever get a return for the love that we bestow?” She 
sank into a reverie which Samuel did not disturb. Allowing 
his more selfish preoccupation to get the bkter of him and 
forgetful for the moment of the misfortune of his ward, he 
asked, “ Has Raimond loved Mile, de Saint-Maurice long ? ” 

Therese gave a start and came back from her reverie to 
reality. “ They were engaged before M. de Ploern^’s de- 
parture for the East,” she said. 

“ So, then, you have ceased to have confidence in your 
old godfather — you won’t tell him your bottom thought ? 


148 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


for I am not your dupe, and I suspect that you have other 
reasons for your action than those which you confess. But 
I don’t wish to torment you. You don’t feel like talking 
to-day? — well, then, I will come and see you again some 
other day ; perhaps you will be more communicative.” 

Therese gave him one of her charming smiles. “ Yes, 
dear godfather, I know how good and kind you are, but 
don’t leave your business for my sake. I shall think of you 
even if I do not see you, and you must not think that I am 
unhappy or that I am opt of my senses. Do not mention 
my name to any one ; I ask you this particularly ; it is im- 
portant to me. Will you promise ? ” 

“Yes, you have my promise ; and if you have need of 
anything you know to whom to come. Don’t allow your- 
self to want for anything ; this house does not seem to me 
to be a very cheerful one. I.ook out, also, and don’t let 
them abuse your generosity. Who has charge of your for- 
tune ? ” 

“ My notary.” 

“Very well ; I will see him. I want a promise from you, 
in return for mine; that you won’t sign anything without 
first consulting me.” 

“ I promise what you wish. And now, godfather, good- 
by ; it is time that you be going. The rules about visitors 
are strict, and we have been together more than an hour.” 

“ Well, then, good-by.” 

Therese was about to leave the room ; Bernheimer took 
her by the hand and said, with emotion, “ Well ! are you 
not going to give me a kiss ? ” 

She threw herself into his arms and, unable to contain 
herself, burst into tears. He gave her a little tap upon the 
shoulder, chiding her in a fatherly fashion : “ Come ! you 
silly girl ! You see that you have a sorrow — you can’t help 
showing it. Oh ! I will find out what it is all about, and I 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 149 

promise you that those who have distressed you will not 
have an easy time of it ! ” 

She hurriedly drew away from him, dried her eyes, and 
said in a firm voice : “ No ! no ! You are mistaken — I 

have no sorrows — and I do not wish that any one should be 
disturbed on my account/' 

With a charming gesture and a kindly smile she disap- 
peared behind the heavy brown oak door. Bernheimer left 
the room, and when in the little court-yard, where the grass 
was growing in the cracks between the flag-stones, he 
stamped with his foot upon the ground and said, “If it is 
Lydie and Raimond who have done this bad turn to the 
little girl — well ! — that will relieve me of all scruples, so far 
as they are concerned ! ” He pursued the thought no 
further, but delighted to have found such a good excuse for 
his intentions, asked the sister to unfasten the gate and took 
himself off. 

Admirably situated as he was in his relations with the 
newly married couple, the banker would have waited pa- 
tiently to develop his designs upon Lydie if at an early day 
he had not discovered that he had rivals. He was not the 
only one who had fallen a victim to her charms, and among 
these suitors the one from whom he had most to fear 
appeared to be young Maurice de Roquiere. Of all those 
who held a position in Parisian society, the little marquis, as 
his friends called him, was one of the most gallant and the 
most fortunate. Not that he was particularly handsome, 
witty, or rich, but he had a way with him that seemed 
to please women. He had been presented to Lydie the 
year previous by Bernheimer himself, and, as was the case 
with most of her new acquaintances, had failed at first to 
attract her attention. With his usual acuteness he had no- 
ticed this, and had restricted himself to laying out a plan 
for a future campaign. One of his talents was that he knew 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


150 

how to wait. Now that Lydie had made her appearance 
again in society he resumed the siege and prepared to press 
it vigorously. His chances of success did not appear par- 
ticularly flattering, however; he was treated on much the 
same footing as Bernheimer, with a sort of elusive, laughing 
favor which did not discourage attentions, but left the 
soupirant3\\N2iys at the same point. Roquiere was an elegant 
dancer and famed as a leader of the cotillon; this made a 
strong point in his favor. To Samuel was ascribed the 
merit of being on the Bourse, and having advantageous 
financial counsels at command. 

When Raimond, after a few months, came to reckon up 
what his establishment in Paris had cost him and what it 
would require to live there on the scale upon which he had 
started out, he had become painfully conscious that he was 
advancing rapidly along the road to ruin. When he mar- 
ried, his income had amounted to two hundred thousand 
francs. The purchase of his hotel and its luxurious furni- 
ture had swallowed up very near a million, therefore his 
income was already cut down by one-fourth, and his house- 
keeping would demand not less than three hundred thou- 
sand francs a year. Even then it would be necessary that 
Lydie should not indulge in any very outrageous caprices. 
He felt that he could not let her whimsies go unsatisfied, 
and at every fresh one one of his farms in Brittany melted 
away. It seemed as if Mine, de Ploerne kept herself 
acquainted, with diabolical clearness of vision,, with her 
husband’s circumstances, and was determined to ruin him, 
for she abounded in devices for throwing away money, pos- 
sessed as she was of that extraordinary recklessness that 
characterizes a girl who knows that when she has stripped 
one lover, a rich man will come along to enable her to con- 
. tinue the plucking process. 

She could not but remark, however, the constrained air 




A DEBT OF HATRED. 


151 

with which Raimond received her when she came in wearing 
a cloak of sable fur that had cost thirty thousand francs, or 
some old point d’Alen9on that she had got at a bargain, so 
she said, for a thousand louis. She did not like his frigid 
way of receiving her purchases ; therefore she inquired 
into the reason of this deficient enthusiasm, and Ploern^, 
who was incapable of dissimulation, opened his heart forth- 
with. He expected that she would show some feeling, 
manifest some repentance for the past and promise a differ- 
ent conduct for the future. It pained him to see Lydie’s 
face darken with a scowl, and it was plain to him that the 
only result of his avowal had been to aspire her with a feel- 
ing of regret that she could not keep on with her reckless 
expenditure. After a moment of embarrassing silence, 
Lydie, in a frosty tone,, let fall these words : 

“ I had thought that we were rich. Excuse me, my friend, 
if I have spent more than your means allow. I will try to 
be more economical in future.” 

Raimond looked at her in amazement ; her notion of 
economizing was to cease abandoning herself to the most 
insane wastefulness, and he had a glimpse into Lydie’s 
character that terrified him. He saw that she was frivolous, 
false, selfish, bad at heart. He had the dawning of a sus- 
picion that she was destitute of feeling, and that perhaps 
the sentiments that she entertained toward him were 
secretly hostile. There was a short space, about one 
minute, when he was quite near the truth. If he had only 
been capable of observing his wife until the end of the 
scene between them, he might perhaps have avoided dis- 
aster and preserved that which he considered to be his 
happiness, but he loved her too passionately to display cal- 
culation ; he was too blinded by his passion to be clear- 
sighted. That which was nothing more nor less than cold- 
blooded wickedness, he set down to the account of inex- 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


iS2 

perience and disappointment, and in place of trying to 
read Lydie’s character he endeavored to excuse her to him- 
self. He gently replied : 

“ We are rich still, my dearest love, but we shall not con- 
tinue to be so long if we keep on spending so much money 
at once. Our resources are great, but they are limited, and 
it behooves us to know what those limits are.” 

“ l^xplain matters more clearly to me, if you please,” said 
the young woman, stretching herself at ease upon the sofa 
with a sulky air. 

“ Well ! when you buy five garments like the fur cloak 
that you purchased the other day, you spend our income 
for the entire year. Understand, I am not blaming you for 
liking pretty things ; they can never be too handsome for 
you. The trouble is that they cost a great deal of money, 
and my fortune, unlike that of the prince in the Thousand 
and One Nights, is not inexhaustible, which I very much 
regret, for it would all be yours, and nothing would give 
me more pleasure than to see you dipping your pretty fingers 
into my treasures.” 

He attempted to take her hand and kiss it, but she 
drew it brusquely away, and in a sharp voice, that had 
nothing in common with her deep tones, her tones of 
love, said, “ If you have not enough money, try to get 
yourself more.” 

“ That is more easily said than done. I think I do not 
know any possible way by which I could make a fortune, 
and I am afraid that I should only succeed in beggaring 
myself.” 

“ What is there that you can do, then, my friend ? ” 

“Not very much,” said Raimond, with a melancholy 
smile. “ I can fight for my country, which is a privilege 
that I share every year with three or four hundred thousand 
other Frenchmen, who do not consider themselves heroes 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


153 


on that account. ' I might navigate a ship from one part of 
the world to the other without wrecking her, God willing. — 
And that’s all.” 

Lydie remained for a moment buried in her reflections. 
She seemed not to have heard what her husband had said. 
Her lip curled with a bitter smile. Of what was she think- 
ing ? She most certainly was not thinking of pausing on the 
road which was leading this good fellow — so loyal, so loving 
— to destruction. Perhaps she beheld in imagination a little 
terrace concealed beneath drooping branches and an Italian 
marquis whispering words of love into her ear, and may be 
she was again vowing vengeance upon him who had caused 
his death. She heaved a sigh, and fastening her eyes upon 
Raimond : 

Why don’t you ask Samuel Bernheimer to tell you how 
to make money on the Bourse ” 

“ Because, my dear, I should not like to engage in opera- 
tions of so speculative a character.” 

‘‘ They would not be speculative if conducted under his 
guidance.” 

“ That would suit me still less. The only excuse for the 
gambler is that he risks his money, but gambling upon a 
certainty — it would seem to me like robbery.” 

“It seems to me that you are rather childish. What do 
all the bankers, the brokers, all those who are engaged in 
financial affairs, do ? They take advantage of the stupidity 
of mankind and make other men pay for their enjoyments. 
To have money in one’s pocket it is necessary that it should 
come out of some one else’s pocket, and if you tell the 
truth in saying that you like to see me spend it, you 
must get it from some quarter. Look at matters in the 
right light, and arrange to devote yourself to business ; 
there is nothing dishonorable about it. All the science of 
busiiiess lies in taking advantage of promising opportuni- 


154 


A DEB T OF HA TRED. 


ties ; only blockheads select bad ones. Do you want to be 
a blockhead ? ” 

She had partially risen and was talking to him with her 
face quite close to his, within reach of his lips. He gave 
her a kiss, and without being quite convinced, replied, I 
would rather not lay my hand to things which appear very 
repulsive in my eyes.” 

“ That’s because you know nothing about them ; all the 
people of your class are stuffed full with such prejudices. 
But we will have another talk on the matter, for something 
must be done, and unless we are going to live in the coun- 
try to save up ” 

“ Oh ! if you would but do that ! ” he eagerly exclaimed. 
“We might be so happy at Ploerne among our farmer lads,' 
who would worship you as if you were a queen.” 

“ Yes ; but among your farmers, with their adoration, the 
queen would be bored to death. It will be better to keep 
on living at Paris, where I am also something of a queen, 
and look about for means to keep the gilding fresh upon 
my crown.” 

She had found the means that she spoke of and next 
morning resumed the conversation, endeavoring to break 
Raimond into the idea of devoting himself to business ; but 
for the first time she found him recalcitrant. He refused 
to entertain the idea, gently, but with unconquerable firm- 
- ness, like the true Breton that he was. She called him pig- 
headed, flew into a passion and threatened him with all 
sorts of dire punishments, of which the most terrible in his 
eyes was her coldness. Bernheimer was called into her 
counsels, and having been enlightened by Lydie as to her 
requirements, took Raimond in hand. It was not his way 
to solve a question by violent means, and when he struck 
up against a deeply rooted conviction, in place of storming 
the enemy’s position he turned it, and thereby arrived at 


A DEBT OF HATRED. ^ 


the same result by another road. He took a way directly 
opposite to that which the young woman had employed to 
gain the comte. 

“ You do not wish to engage in speculation,” he said, 
“ and you are quite right ; it is a poor business, and unless 
one goes into it on a large scale, is far from being a desir- 
able one. And then is does not seem at all clear to me that 
you are naturally adapted to operations of such nicety ; to 
be successful in them requires a special form of mental or- 
ganization. There are many men of the highest intelligence 
who fail to comprehend them, and then again there are idiots 
who excel in them. So, then, don’t speculate ; but, if you 
will, let us look and see if we can’t find some more remun- 
erative investment for your money. It often happens that 
there'are securities which increase in value within a short 
time a hundred and even two hundred per cent. There 
you have a way of affording satisfaction to your wife with- 
out offending your scruples. We will keep our eyes open, 
therefore, and be ready to seize the-opportunity boldly when 
it presents itself.” 

Ploerhe was pleased by Samuel’s arguments ; he could 
desire nothing better than to satisfy Lydie without doing 
violence to his principles. He gave his assent, therefore, 
to the banker’s scheme, and proceeded to arrange matters 
so that the greater part of his fortune should be available 
for his purpose. The opportunity that Bernheimer had 
spoken of was near at hand. For some months the enter- 
prise of the Comptoir had been quietly in course of prepara- 
tion and the issue of its shares would produce an important 
movement in the market. Samuel had counted on this to 
exhibit himself to Lydie in his true aspect, and as he had 
not the personal advantages necessary to secure her favor, 
he proposed to dazzle her by his power in the financial 
world. He had asked the young woman to intrust him 


156 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


with a sum of money which he would manage so as to 
make a profit for her. 

Lydie, to whom, upon her marriage, her mother had 
given two hundred thousand francs, had preserved intact 
the stocks and bonds that represented her dowry. Raimond 
had always refused to touch these securities, wishing that 
his wife should have entire control of them ; and this 
squanderer of her husband’s money, with a selfish instinct 
that was characteristic, had never spent a penny of her own. 
The two hundred thousand francs were handed over to 
Bernheimer, who received them with a sort of loving care. 
At the same time Raimond subscribed for three thousand 
shares of five hundred francs each of the issue, and seeing 
his name in company with the greatest names of France, he 
thought that he was assisting in a work of social renovation 
and at the same time doing a good stroke of business for 
himself. One of the two ends that he had in view seemed 
to be reached almost at the beginning ; the market had 
gone up with surprising rapidity, and it seemed probable 
that the shareholders would make three for one upon their 
investment. Raimond was released from all his anxieties, 
and as ruin no longer stared him in the face, he felt him- 
self at liberty to spend freely that part of his fortune which 
he had not put into Coinptoir Fran^ais. He was turning 
these things over in his mind on the evening of Bernheimer’s 
fete while leaning against the door-casing and watching 
Lydie dancing with Maurice de Roquiere. He was happy 
in the thought that he was free from all anxiety ; happy, 
also, to behold her radiant and smiling. His eyes followed 
the young woman as she revolved lightly in the dance, rest- 
ing on her partner’s arm. He thought how pretty and how 
charming she was, was not surprised that men collected in 
groups to watch and admire her, and did not take offense 
at those ardent looks that rested upon her. His mind was 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


157 


untroubled by the most remote suspicion, his confidence 
was entire. He was absorbed in his pleasant thoughts when 
a hand was laid upon his shoulder and made him turn around. 
Bernheimer was standing behind him with a smile upon 
his lips, but also with a trace of uneasiness upon his 
face. 

“ The comtesse is enjoying herself,” he said, pointing to 
LydiOj who happened at that time to pass quite near to 
them. “ Ah ! those young men are lucky to have a chance 
to dance with her. That pleasure is over for us — but when 
I say us I am wrong, for you are not too old to dance if 
you should take the fancy.” 

“ I can’t very well imagine myself revolving to the sound 
of music, ”'Raimond gayly said. “ Those pleasing follies 
are not in my way.” 

“ That Roquiere makes a splendid partner,” Bernheimer 
meaningly said. “ The vigor of his legs seems to give 
great satisfaction — and then he does not ask every one and 
thus confers distinction on his partner ” 

“ The comtesse likes him as a partner, for she does not 
dance indiscriminately with every one, either.” 

Bernheimer made a wry face ; he said to himself, 
“ These husbands are all alike. Show them their danger 
and they shut their eyes to keep out the light.” 

The dance was over and Lydie and Roquiere returned to 
th^ir places. Samuel advanced to meet them, stepping in 
front of Raimond. He seemed to be desirous of parting 
the young man and the comtesse as quickly as possible. 
She seemed to be unconscious of his maneuver, and ap- 
proaching her husband : 

“ If you are ready,” said she, “ we will go.” 

“What! you are not thinking of going already?” ex- 
claimed Bernheimer. “ It is very early yet.” 

“ We only intended to show ourselves here. We ought 


58 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


to look in at the De Layracs’ before we go home, but I am 
tired to death and want to save myself for to-morrow.” 

^ “ What is going on to-morrow ? ” 

“ Nothing more than there was yesterday, and is to-day, 
and will be all winter long,” Raimond replied, with a smile 
of resignation. “ Receptions, at which we will have to be 
present when we would be so much better off at home.” 

“ What will you do with yourself when you are an old 
man, then?” Roquiere laughingly asked. 

“ I will try to console myself for being no longer young, 
and that will be enough to keep me busy.” 

Bernheimer had offered his arm to Lydie and Roquiere 
brought up the rear with Ploerne. They entered the noble,, 
dining-room, where the collation was served. People were 
eating and drinking, doubtless to the prosperity of the new 
enterprise; and if its success depended upon the quantity of 
champagne consumed, it promised to be all that its pro- 
moters could desire. Samuel elbowed his way through the 
throng and summoning a waiter with a look, caused re- 
freshments to be served upon a small table for the 
comtesse. 

Standing with a smile upon her face, in the midst of the 
circle of gazers that had formed about her, she slowly 
plucked the grapes from the bunch that she held in her 
hand, chatting with the banker with an indifferent air. She 
was alive to the cross-fire of admiring glances that fell 
upon her from every side, but evinced no consciousness. 
She was never really and truly happy except at those 
moments when her vanity was being flattered by such 
homage. She cast a glance on Raimond, who was chatting 
quietly with Roquiere, and her lip curled with an expres- 
sion of disdain. The poor man ! Was he really worthy of 
all the hatred that existed in her heart ? Was it possible 
that she should once have dreaded violence at his hands ? 
She feared him no more now, and soon would fear him 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


»59 


even less than now. She took her glass and, as she was 
raising it to her lips, heard Samuel’s voice murmuring : 

“ I drink to our common success.” 

She smiled at him and repeated in incisive tones : 

“ Yes, to our common success, and to ail the promise that 
it implies ! ” 

The banker joyfully made a gesture of thanks. The part- 
nership which Lydie had assented to seemed to him of 
favorable augury, but if he had understood all that was 
embraced in the young woman’s answer, he would have been 
alarmed. 

She sat down her empty glass, and turning to Raimond, 
curtly said : 

“ Whenever it pleases you, now.” 

She shook hands with Samuel, shook her fan at Maurice 
by way of bidding him good-night, and left the room, walk- 
ing by herself. The banker followed her with his eyes as 
long as she remained in sight, and when the floating plumes 
upon her head had vanished down the grand staircase, he 
heaved a sigh. 

“ What a woman, eh ? ” said Roquiere at his side. 

“Yes, indeed, a most charming woman,” Bernheimer 
replied. He remained silent for a moment, then looking 
sarcastically at the young marquis, added, “ But she is not 
for you or me/’ 

“ Bah ! who can tell ! There are so many ups and downs 
in life. Who knows, she may be a widow yet ! ” 

He took his departure, leaving Bernheimer exceedingly 
depressed. The orchestra was still pouring its sweetest 
strains from its station in the gilded balcony ; couples were 
yet whirling in the giddy waltz, amid the joyous murmurs 
of the multitude ; the brilliant festivities went on uninter- 
ruptedly, but to Samuel all was vanity and vexation of 
spirit ; she, who for an hour’s time had been the soul of 
the feast for him, was there no longer. 


VI. 


W HEN Lydie, in her paroxysm of grief and rage, had 
made up her mind to be revenged on Raimond, had 
the powers below granted her the ability, she would have 
laid him dead at her feet. Time and reflection, however, 
had modified her ideas, and now it was her intention to 
make him endure more protracted and more refined tor- 
tures. The prospect gave her pleasure ; the cruelty that 
was inherent in her grew by what it fed on. During those 
hours of grim reflection which so distressed her husband, 
Raimond would have been horrified by her “broodings could 
he have divined them. This charming woman, as she lay 
there in a graceful attitude, with pensive brow and half- 
closed eyes, was plotting his ruin and his death ; and when 
a faint smile appeared upon her lips and th6 light returned 
to her eyes, reassuring Ploerne, who had been all the even- 
ing asking himself, “ What ails her ?. What is the reason of 
this moping, this silence?” the reason of it was that the 
plots which she had laid for the wretched man seemed in 
her eyes skillfully laid and certain to produce the desired 
effect. 

Bernheimer and Roquiere held a large place in her mind 
during these meditations, as instruments and tools of which 
she might avail herself. She had sounded . the depths of 
Samuel’s heart and knew what dependence she might place 
upon the attachment of this hlasi individual. He was mad, 
stark staring mad, for her, and to gain her regard would 
lend himself to any infamy. That was the opinion that 
she had formed of him at least. , Pursuing her dream still 

160 


A DEBT OF HATRED. i6i 

further, she thought, Why should I not become his law- 
ful wife? There is no doubt about his being a rich man, 
and with the assistance of his millions might be really and 
truly queen of Paris. He will marry me if I choose, and 
will be only too happy to ^ive me that proof of his love.” 
Then another face would rise dimly amid her musings, the 
blond face of Maurice de Roquiere. Young was he, ardent 
and impassioned ; as conspicuous by his fairness as the 
Italian had been by his darkness ; handy, too, with sword 
and pistol, and a man who would not hesitate to kill an ad- 
versary in single conflict. Thus in her detestable dreams 
she planned and arranged the events of her drama, as she 
sat opposite to him who was to be the victim of her malig- 
nity, answering him with a smile when he spoke to her, out- 
wardly tranquil and undisturbed, but inwardly boiling and 
seething with her devilish thoughts. 

Now, however, reality was beginning to take the place 
of dreams. Roquiere had been carrying on his siege for a 
week, making his advances with much coolness and moder- 
ation, and his attentions were becoming serious. He had 
not been repulsed, and this was to him an important point. 
It was quite natural that he should conceive hopes from a 
favorable reception, he who never allowed himself to be 
discouraged by a rebuff. 

■ The weather had been very cold and ice had formed of 
thickness sufficient to allow skating. Lydie, a child of 
southern skies, derived great pleasure from watching the 
sport as conducted by her friends and acquaintances of the 
club. She could admire Bernheimer’s prudence as he 
maneuvered cautiously upon his patent skates, his face 
purple, and his eyes watering with the cold, but bravely 
offering himself as a sacrifice to fashion and risking an 
attack of lumbago to preserve his chic. She took particu- 
lar notice, too, of Roquiere, who was very skillful in this 


62 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


exercise, skimming swiftly over the frozen surface, wheeling 
suddenly and tracing circles on one foot, backward and for- 
ward, writing his name upon the ice, and attracting a crowd 
of admirers around him by his dexterity. 

With a hot-water receptacle at her feet and snugly 
wrapped in her luxurious furs, delightedly enjoying the 
sharp air which brought roses to her cheek and sent the blood 
circulating more quickly through her veins, Lydie watched 
the handsome young man who, amid the general applause, 
exerted himself for her alone. Bernheimer, with the 
assured air of an expert, had offered to take her out upon 
a sledge and she had declined ; but when Roquiere 
approached her with the same request she had yielded to 
her desire to be whirled over that surface that was smooth 
as polished steel. Samuel had protested with an air of 
vexation, reproaching his dear comtesse for not having- 
more confidence in him, but she had only laughed and told 
him that he might follow in her train if he wished to. 

When comfortably seated, her knees protected by a great 
bear-skin robe, she had given the signal and Maurice’s 
strong arm had urged her forward as smoothly as if she 
were gliding through air. She knew that he was there 
behind her, else she might have thought that she was being 
carried through space on the wings of the wind, so swift 
and easy was the motion. In front of her, rising in a rosy 
mist above the dim masses of the undergrowth, now brown 
and sere, the great trees of the AlUe des Acacias reared 
their leafless heads ; there was a crust of snow on the 
ground upon which the hemlocks, sole verdure of this deso- 
late season, stood out boldly in great clumps of green. To 
the right a wintry sun, shorn of his brightest rays, flamed 
among the thin undergrowth and transmuted the pendent 
icicles from diamonds into rubies. Now and again a flight 
of wild ducks would pass above their heads in the cold, 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


163 


gloomy sky, following their leader in triangular array. The 
sledge flew over the icy plain, conducted by a skilled arm, 
and Lydie abandoned herself to the intoxication of space, 
air and speed. 

Samuel, who had started out like a gallant^knight, had at 
first endeavored to keep up with Roquiere and the young 
woman, but had soon been left behind, uttering a few ap- 
pealing cries, to which Maurice and Lydie had turned a 
deaf ear. In distress for breath, and not to cover himself 
with ridicule by following in procession after his triumphant 
rival, he had abandoned the pursuit and devoted himself to 
leisurely moving along the shore where the lawns and fences 
lay white beneath their coat of snow, now and then casting 
a glance of ill humor toward the sledge which was flying 
along toward the upper end of the little lake, where the 
skaters were few in number. Great as was the pleasure 
that the young woman experienced in the swift motion, she 
could not help feeling pity for her steed ; she turned and 
smilingly said, with rosy face : 

“ I am ashamed to abuse your kindness so ; please take 
me back to the club-house.” 

His only answer was to redouble his speed ; but, obedient 
to her behest, he drove her downward toward the crowd 
where the ladies and gentlemen were making display of 
their grace and skill by wheeling in small circles at the cost 
of as little effort as possible. Bernheimer had returned and 
was among the groups. Lydie, from a distance, beheld the 
skaters moving upon the ice, black and small, like an aggre- 
gation of ants moving about their hill ; then, as she drew 
nearer with great rapidity, they grew larger, she could dis- 
cern faces, and in a second she was among them. 

“ Ah ! here you are at last,” Bernheimer pettishly ex- 
claimed. “ I think you might have told me that you were 
going to the end of the lake. I would have followed you.” 


164 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


Lydie looked- mischievously at Roquiere, who was pant- 
ing like a race-horse, and pointed to the banker, who had 
all he could do to keep himself erect upon his skates. “ I 
think you did all you could,” said the young woman, “ but 
you could hardly expect to keep up with the wind — and 
our speed equaled that of the monsoon.” 

“You must be frozen ; leave your sledge and come and 
warm yourself at the braseros'' 

“ No, I am quite warm enough. But I want to learn to 
skate.” 

“ Come with me,” Samuel eagerly exclaimed. “ I wifi 
teach you so that you will be able to skate in no time.” 

“ Oh ! ” Mme. de Ploerne interrupted, “ 1 have not much 
confidence in your skill. Here is the teacher that I want, 
right at hand.” 

“ I admit that Roquiere is a swifter skater than I, but he 
is no safer. See here, take my cane ; we will each hold an 
end of it and you will have nothing to do but stand up and 
let us draw you.” 

“ No ! no ! two cavaliers for one lady ! that would be one 
too many. M. de Roquiere will suffice.” She stepped down 
from the sledge, and regardless of the banker’s disconsolate 
look, “ Only you will have to get me a pair of skates. I 
have none.” 

“ Never mind that,” said Maurice ; “ I will get you a 
pair in a second.” 

He started to go toward the shelter, when Bernheimer, 
coming up to Lydie with a look of anxiety on his face, said 
to her : 

“ Really, Comtesse, I don’t see how you can make such a 
spectacle of yourself with that man Roquiere. You cause 
me great pain — you ought not to do it — the world is so 
censorious, and people will talk about you. Your hus- 
band ” 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


165 

“ Oh ! never mind my husband,” Lydie laughingly ex- 
claimed. “ He is not so troublesome as you are — which 
seems to be a funny thing for me to say. He has confi- 
dence in me, and he is right.” 

“ Of course he is right ! ” Bernheimer nervously re- 
plied. “ Heaven forbid that I should appear jealous — such 
a thing never entered my head. But remember that the 
opinion of the world is founded upon appearances. A 
young fellow like Roquiere, you see, don’t care a straw for 
a woman’s reputation — they are all alike, vanity and pleas- 
ure before everything ! Understand me, I am only looking 

to your interest ; I am speaking to you as a friend ” 

“ As a father, you might say,” Lydie interrupted ironi- 
cally. 

Bernheimer made a wry face and said fretfully, ‘‘ I see 
that you are not disposed to look with favor upon me, and 
my good advice is all wasted on you. It will be better for 
me to go away.” * 

“^Bernheimer, I forbid you to leave me,” the young 
woman impetuously said. “ Vou are here to do my pleas- 
ure, and not to vex and annoy me. Here is M. de Roquiere 
coming back — I am going to have just one turn on the lake 
with him ; then I will thank him, and you may take me to the 
buffet and give me something to eat before I go home.-’ 

“ That is a bargain,” exclaimed Samuel, restored to good 
humor by this concession. Then with another outbreak of 
jealousy, “ Do not remain too long away. I will have 
everything ready for you against you come back.” 

The marquis came up, bringing with him a pair of Ameri- 
can skates with runners of polished steel. He kneeled 
down and fastened them to Lydie’s feet. Samuel watched 
him with an agitation that he could not conceal. When he 
beheld the young woman standing on her feet, he could n .>t 
refrain from saying, with an expression of alarm : 


i66 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


“ Take care ! You will be very careful, won’t you, Ro- 
quiere ? ” 

Maurice laughed, and replied in a bantering tone : 

“ Yes, papa ! ” 

They started, she with her feet close together, fearlessly 
allowing herself to be drawn along by him ; he holding her 
firmly by the arm so that it was impossible for her to fall. 
At first she greatly enjoyed the rapid progress over the ice, 
that rang beneath the sharp steel blades ; the motion 
was so easy that it seemed to cost her no effort. Pres- 
ently she wished to try what she could do without the as- 
sistance of her companion. He explained to her how she 
was to hold herself, and she docilely obeyed his instructions. 
She had an easy grace of carriage that made exercise of 
all kinds easy to her. She immediately caught the trick of 
handling her feet, and, with Roquiere’s arm to sustain her, 
fancied that she was skating. They had proceeded thus 
for a few hundred meters when suddenly, whether owing 
to fatigue or an attack of dizziness, Lydie asked her in- 
structor to stop. They were then alone upon the ice 
in front of the little ivy-covered tower. The young 
woman stood quite still, panting for breath, then clutched 
Roquiere by the arm ; everything grew dim before 
her eyes; she became pale, and murmured in a faint 
voice : 

‘‘ I am dizzy ; my head is going round and round. I feel 
as if I were going to be ill.” 

He put his arm around her waist. “ Close your eyes — 
you have a slight attack of vertigo. You tried to accom- 
plish too much at the beginning. The sledge is only a few 
steps away; when you feel a little better I will help you 
back to it. Do you think you can walk now ? ” 

She did not reply ; he felt her resting more heavily upon 
his shoulder. Her eyes were closed still, but the color had 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 167 

come back to her cheeks. She drew a deep breath and 
sighed, “ It seems to me as if I could not walk a step.” 

“ Then wait a moment.” 

He braced himself firmly and with an effort seized her in 
his arms, raised and lifted her from the ice. She gave a 
little scream, and a gleam of light shot from between her 
half-opened lids. He held her closely to his breast, and it 
seemed to him that the palpitation of their two hearts was 
as one. Without stopping in his swift flight he lowered his 
face to the exquisite mouth that lay blooming like a flower 
so near his lips, and imprinted on it a burning kiss. The 
pretty eyes that had been watching him closed ; he felt a 
shiver running through the form that he was bearing away 
in his arms as if it were his prey^and Lydie, like one de- 
prived of life, remained speechless and motionless. He 
reached the sledge, deposited in it his precious burden and 
returned with mad haste to the club-house. Bernheimer 
was awaiting them. Upon beholding Lydie in her recum- 
bent position, he exclaimed : 

“ Good God ! What is the matter? ” 

It was the young woman who answered his question. “ I 
had a slight attack of dizziness, but I am better now.” She 
endeavored to rise. “ I feel as if every bone in my body 
were broken,” she said. Then, turning toward Maurice, “ It 
was a mistake in me to trust you.” She smiled in such a 
puzzling manner that the young man could not tell whether 
her allusion applied to the excursion that she had made 
with him or to the kiss that he had given her. She allowed 
herself to be relieved of her skates, and taking the arm of 
the sorrowing Bernheimer. 

“ You have lost your chance of lunching with me to-day,” » 
said she. “ Call my carriage. I wish to go home.” 

“ You see how it is ; I told you so. If you had listened 
to me, all this would not have happened.” 


i68 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


“ Very likely. But what is to be, must be, you know.” 

They had reached the gate. She turned, and looking 
at Roquiere with the same expression that she had had 
when he held her in his arms, said : 

“ We shall meet soon again, shall we not ? ” 

Without other answer he made a deep bow, and she left 
the grounds. 

Ploerne was not well pleased when, as he idly ran his eye 
over his newspaper next morning, he came upon these lines 
among the Echos : 

There was a large attendance yesterday at the grounds of the Skating 
Club. Among other distinguished devotees of the fascinating sport 
were 

Among all those notabilities of the world of fashion 
whose names appeared before his eyes, there was one name 
that struck him as if he had received a blow in the face, and 
that was his wife’s, the Comtesse de Ploerne. What was 
he doing at that time ? He was going over his accounts, at 
the club, or busying himself with some other trifle, instead 
of being with Lydie, who seemed to get along very well 
without him and amused herself by skating among stran- 
gers without letting him know. It was true that Bern- 
heimer and Roquiere were there, and Clairefont and 
Bligny, and so many more of his friends ; but it did not 
seem to him any the better on that account that Lydie 
should give way to her sporting proclivities without telling 
him. He remained for a moment thoughtful and with 
clouded face in the little salon where he waited for his 
wife to come and go in to breakfast with him. She came 
into the room, blooming as a rose, among the exquisite 
clouds of white silk and lace that constituted her morning 
dress, bright of eye and smiling of face. 

She saw at the first glance that he was out of temper, 
and, addressing herself to her subject with the directness of 
a woman who is sure of her ascendancy : 


A DEB 7 ' OF HATRED. 169 

“ What is the matter ? ” she asked. “ What is the rea- 
son of these glum looks ?” 

He replied to her question by asking her another : “ You 
did not tell me yesterday that it was your intention to go 
skating ? ” 

“ Ah ! so that’s what you have on your mind ? ” 

“ I can’t help noticing it, since the newspapers have got 
hold of it.” 

“ It seems to me that the newspapers must be hard up for 
topics. What business is it of theirs? Well! yes, I was 
skating yesterday, in company with Bernheimer and Ro- 
quiere. Have you any fault to find with me for that? ” 

“ I am sorry that you did not mention your intention to 
me ; I would have gone with you.” 

“ How could 1 know that I would go on the ice ? I only 
went there to look at the others ; the opportunity offered, 
and a sudden fancy seized me to imitate them. Is that 
such a terrible crime ? ” 

“But suppose something had happened you ! ” 

“ What could have happened me ? ” 

“ How can I tell ? You might have fallen and hurt your- 
self.” 

She laughed, looked rather superciliously at Raimond, 
made a pirouette, and taking her husband’s arm, said : 
“Come ! let’s go in to breakfast — and don’t look cross, for 
it’s not becoming to you. I know what’s the matter with 
you ; you are angry because you did not have a chance to 
display your skill before me. I suppose you skate in a very 
superior manner.” 

“ Oh, no ! lam not much of a skater — about the same as 
the rest.” 

“ But you must skate better than Bernheimer, any way.” 

“ Oh ! Bernheimer ! He don’t count.” 

“ It would not do to tell him that. He is as vain as a 
peacock ; he would never forgive you.” 


70 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


“Is Bernheimer, too, one of your admirers?” 

“They are all admirers; but he is even more devoted 
than the rest.” 

“ Poor Bernheimer ! I give you my word, Lydie, that I 
am not jealous.” 

“Of him?” 

“ Neither of him nor of any one else.” 

“ You are wrong ! ” She uttered these words with a dis- 
tinctness that made Raimond raise his eyes. 

“ Why so ? ” he tranquilly asked. 

“ Because a man who is really in love should always be 
jealous, otherwise he runs the risk of being considered pre- 
sumptuous.” 

“ You know that I am not guilty of that fault ; but if I 
have no great confidence in my own desert, I have a great 
deal in your discretion.” 

She looked him unflinchingly in the face and rather sharply 
asked : “ And supposing I were to abuse that confidence ? ” 

His face paled a little, and with undiminished tranquillity 
he replied, “ Do not jest upon this subject, Lydie. It is 
too painful to me.” 

She persisted, heedless of his request, with eager nervous- 
ness : “That is not answering my question. Tell me — 
what would you do ? ” 

Raimond’s brow contracted in a frown and in a deep voice 
he made answer, “ You know what I did once before, and 
even then I was not certain ; but if it were you — and if I 
were certain — it will be an evil day for him who ever at- 
tempts to take you from me — an evil day for you as well.” 
He passed his hand across his forehead, and with a forced 
laugh, “ But you are making me talR folly with your per- 
sistency. Let us quit this subject, which has such bitter 
memories for me. To endure such anguish — good God ! 
once in one’s lifetime is enough ! ” 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 171 

She watched him while he spoke and saw that he was 
trembling with the restraint that he laid upon himself. Al- 
though acting under the inspiration of her hate, she saw 
that she had delivered her blow in the right place ; it was 
there where was the sensitive spot of that heart of his. 
Yes, she well knew what he had done before, and it was a 
bold thing for her to do to remind him of it. Without 
knowing which of the two, she or Therese, was the guilty 
one, he had slain a man, and she saw clearly that he would 
be capable of killing another, ten others, and herself to 
boot, if he were threatened in his love. She experienced a 
somber delight upon discovering that he was so much to be 
dreaded ; she had thought that he had lost all his former 
spirit, and was on the verge of despising him. It gave her 
pleasure to think that she would be compelled to fear him ; 
there was a promise of danger in the conflict, and she 
would be staking her life against her attempt to avenge her- 
self. She seemed to be more respectable ; her intent 
seemed to have lost something of its tawdry vulgarity, and 
the danger that she incurred imparted grandeur to it. This 
was something of a satisfaction to her proud soul ; it was 
repugnant to crush a defenseless being ; she cheered herself 
with the thought that she would have to face this man who 
hesitated not to deal out death. 

He aroused himself from his reverie and said, “ I am 
not induced to criticise your action of yesterday by any 
feeling of apprehension, of any kind whatever, as to what 
you may do ; but you are very young and but little ex- 
perienced in the ways of the world ; you don’t know how 
little it takes one to acquire a bad name. There is nothing 
more dangerous than an appearance of levity ; a person 
can get through the world with less censure, believe me, by 
wearing an appearance of gravity to conceal her really ex- 
istent frivolity. Decorum is everything, and she who keeps 


172 


A DEBT OF /[A TEED. 


up appearances in public is licensed to commit many a folly 
in private. I beg, therefore, that you won’t cloak your dis- 
cretion beneath airs of frivolity, and whenever the fancy takes 
you. to indulge yourself in some little eccentricity out of the 
common, let me know, so that I may be there and shield 
your reputation by my presence.” 

This kindly admonition was more displeasing to Lydie 
than the violence which had gone before. Seated facing 
him, separated from him only by the width of the table, she 
watched him and was inspired by quick impulses of anger 
at beholding him so tranquil, so simple of purpose. He 
was handsome, although rather cold of aspect, but what 
warmth of heart, what tenderness, what strength of devo- 
tion were his ! He was brave, although he trembled before 
her glance and was the slave of her slightest whim. Any 
woman might have been happy to have his love ; he towered 
above all other men, and she attributed it to him as a crime. 
She would have been less bitter toward him had he been re- 
pulsive, base, and cowardly ; she knew that the sentiments 
which she entertained for him were unjust and odious, 
and yet she was only animated by them the more. She at- 
tributed as a crime to him her own infamy. 

As for him, his life had not been such as he had dreamed, 
and there was within him a depth of melancholy which he 
did his best to hide in order not to offend Lydie, but 
which made life cheerless as soon as he was left alone. 
Since his marriage there had been nothing but disappoint- 
ment for him, nothing but bitterness and unrest. He felt 
that he had not the love of his wife, he had allowed himsel'f 
to be involved in business affairs which, successful though 
they were, were a source of care to him. Above all, he was 
parted from Th^rese. Ever since the young girl’s resolu- 
tion to seek shelter in a convent, Raimond had endeavored 
to forget the companion of his childhood ; he had repeat- 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


73 


edly gone over the reasons that seemed to make it neces- 
sary that he should blot her memory from out his life. He 
had never been able to convince himself. On one occasion 
he had asked Bernheimer if he knew what had become of 
Therese. The banker had replied : 

“Yes, I have seen her within the past week. She is well. 
She is happy and contented.” 

This assurance had only served to increase Raimond’s 
sadness. Contented, did he say ? How could she be con- 
tented 1 Was she entirely heartless, then, that she could be 
happy after such sorrows, such misfortunes ? Or had she 
deceived Bernheimer, who could have no idea of what 
was going on within the girl’s tortured heart ? For he must 
be entirely ignorant of the drama which had made Therese 
embrace a religious life. Raimond had wished to have a 
clear understanding, and had again questioned Samuel. 
The banker had tranquilly replied that Therese was some- 
thing of a mystic^and that she had not been able to resist 
her vocation when it suddenly and rather vaguely presented 
itself to her. He took advantage of the opportunity to 
subject Ploerne, with much shrewdness, and in such a way 
that the latter should not suspect his object, to an interrog- 
atory that might throw some light upon his god-daughter’s 
motives in imprisoning herself in a convent, Raimond 
gave him to understand that Mile. Letourneur had suffered 
from a disappointment in love, and this accorded with the 
theory that Bernheimer had formed for himself. From that 
time it appeared to him as clear as day that Ploerne had 
been beloved by Therese at the time when he experienced 
his passion for Lydie. He therefore threw the comte off 
his guard by an affectation of indifference, while at the 
same time adroitly extracting from him a fragment of the 
truth which served him to reconstruct the entire story. But 
pf what use to hiro could this shrewd interpretation of the 


74 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


facts be? What could he do to help his god-daughter ? 
•Nothing, since Ploerne was Lydie’s husband, and Lydie 
was all in all to him. He had therefore laid his information 
away in a corner of his memory where he could refer to it 
at any time, should there be any opportunity to make use 
of it ; but in his heart of hearts he could not help feeling 
sorry that Ploerne had married Lydie and disdained The- 
rese’s love, or perhaps been ignorant of its existence. It 
was she who was cut out to be his wife, while the other — 
No ! Mile. Saint-Maurice, in the triumph of her beauty, was 
never made for calm, grave Raimond. The wife whom 
destiny had created for him was Therese, but, as was only 
to be expected, he had allowed himself to become infatuated 
with her who was not suited to him, and had passed by 
her who would have assured his happiness. Bernheimer 
thought, “To set all things right, I ought to have power 
to open Raimond’s eyes and restore Lydie to liberty. How 
happy Therese and Ploerne would be together, and how I 
would dazzle Paris with Lydie ! Oh ! all that little woman 
wants is a few millions to spend, and I could give them to 
her.” 

Thus did the good Samuel reason in his infatuation, and 
he was deeply infatuated. Many charming women had he 
loved before, but never with such a love as he had for this 
little creole comtesse. Every one remembered the foolish 
things that he had done for the sake of Charlotte Villeroy 
and Mine. Olifaunt. The actress and the foreigner between 
them had made him spend a fortune, and he had quarreled 
with Selim Nuno for the pretty Englishwoman. The peo- 
ple of the financial world still remembered the war of 
money-bags that had been fought out at that time on 
’change by the two gossips. 

How matters would turn out in the end he could not 
tell, but he was happy in awaiting the denouement. He 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


75 


managed to have enough flirtation to keep him con- 
tented ; every day he saw Mme. de Ploern^ either at her 
own house or in society or at the Bois. The familiar man- 
ner with which she received him threw him into raptures ; 
she treated him with a mixture of insolence and cordiality, 
as if he were something between an uncle and a domestic. 
I.ydie’s’first words when they met were always, “ How are 
affairs on ’change ? ” and when he had given her the cus- 
tomary satisfactory answer, she compensated him by a few 
nice words that raised him to the seventh heaven. He kept 
•a sharp eye on things that went on about him, watching 
the progress that the habituh of the house were making in 
the comtesse’s intimacy, and it gave him pleasure to see 
that none was more favored than another ; that all were 
treated on the same footing of equality. One of them, in- 
deed, Roquiere, had seemed for a time to be on the high 
road to success, and now for the last two weeks he had 
been seen much less frequently in the Rue Rembrandt, as 
if he were disgusted at the failure of his efforts to please. 
This abstinence, which afforded Samuel so much pleasure, 
was shortly to be explained to him in a manner that would 
not be particularly conducive to his peace of mind. 


VII. 


O NE afternoon, about four o’clock, just as it was begin- 
ning to be dark, Bernheimer was returning from Passy, 
where he had been to look at a park, all that was left of 
what once had been a princely residence, which offered a 
chance to make a small fortune by cutting it up in lots. 
'Phe sleet and frozen snow in the roadway made it a diffi- 
cult matter for the banker’s horses to make their way along 
a street that had been newly laid out between the Avenue 
Kleber and the Avenue d’lena, when, at the -corner of the 
Rue de Lubeck, Samuel caught sight of a woman, elegantly 
but simply dressed and deeply veiled, emerging from a tall 
apartment house, who advanced rapidly a few steps along 
the sidewalk and entered a cab which was waiting for her 
and which drove away at once at a rapid pace. Bernheimer 
felt all the blood in his body flowing back upon his heart ; 
he was certain that the woman whom he had seen was 
Lydie. He quickly lowered the front window of the coupe 
to direct his coachman to follow the cab, but checked him- 
self, owing to the fear of what the man might think. 

Another and a better idea presented itself to his mind. 
Ill place of following the cab which, he had reason to 
believe, bore Lydie and her fortunes, would it not be better 
to anticipate the young woman, and go and await her return 
in her own house ? In that way he could learn whether or 
not she was at home and could compare her dress with that 
of the woman whom he had seen coming out of the house 
in the Rue de Lubeck. Any way, he could use his eyes, 
could watch and question, taking advantage of Lydie’s 

176 


A DEBT OE tlATkED. 


177 


security to throw some light upon what was doubtful. Yes, 
that seemed to him to be an excellent scheme. He lowered 
the front^window, that he might not be seen protruding his 
head from the door, and ordered the coachman to drive to 
the Rue Rembrandt. The cab was proceeding still in the 
direction of the Champs-Elysees, jolting over the ruts and 
hillocks in the street. When in the neighborhood of the 
Arc de Triomphe he lost it from sight, and, more master c>f 
himself, tried to account to himself for the instinctive 
impulse that had sent him off in pursuit of her whom he had 
reason to believe was Lydie. What was going on within 
his brain, and whence came that feverish agitation that had 
taken possession of him ? He would have given his head 
to be able to believe that he was mistaken. Some flirta- 
tions, some small coquetries with the young fellows of her 
set, these were no more than was to be expected, and would 
she have been a woman, — and such an adorable and seduc- 
tive woman as she was, — if she had always presented herself 
to the world as a dignified, grave, and austere person ? He 
was very far from suspecting the existence of an intrigue, 
but if there were one he had no hesitation as to the other 
person engaged in it. If there was a liaison between Lydie 
and some one of those who had been pursuing her with 
their attentions, there could be no doubt : it was no other 
than Roquiere. Everything went to prove it, and above 
all his absence for some time from her house. If his visits 
to the young woman were more infrequent, the reason must 
be that he saw her elsewhere. And what was the date that 
should be assigned as the beginning of this fine story ? 
Why, the afternoon that they had spent together at the 
Skating-Club. Yes, it was subsequent to that day that 
Maurice had been lost to the sight of his acquaintances. 
A feeling of rage took possession of Samuel, the impotent 
rage of an old man who feels that he has been made a fool 


178 


-A DEBT OF HATRED. 


of, and in the seclusion of his coup6 he gave way to 
menaces and imprecations. 

The vehicle drew up in front of the Ploernes’ hotel. He 
leaped quickly out upon the sidewalk and entered the house. 
In the vestibule he was approached by a servant of whom 
he asked, “Is Madame la Comtesse at home?” He was 
told that Madame la Comtesse was out, but was expected 
back about five o’clock ; would Monsieur be pleased to step 
into the salon and wait ? There, among the luxurious sur- 
roundings where he was accustomed to see her, where 
every object spoke of her, where the faint perfume that she 
loved exhaled from the curtains and the tapestry in sweet 
reminder of her presence, Bernheimer was still more keenly 
conscious of his sorrow in believing her to be another’s. 
He strode about the room, cursing the corruption of the 
world and fuming against the short-sighted husband who 
could not see what was going on. As he was mentally con- 
signing Ploern6 to all the devils, the door opened and that 
individual came forward, with a smile upon his face, to 
greet the banker : 

“ I was told that you were here awaiting the comtesse’s 
return. I was in my study, and thought I would come and 
keep you company.” 

His presence at first gave Bernheimer pleasure. He 
immediately approached the subject that he had at heart, 
but soon learned that if one is in search of information as 
to the sayings and doings of a woman, that woman’s hus- 
band is the last person in the world to whom he should ap- 
■^ply. To Samuel’s shrewdly put inquiries Raimond returned 
the most unsatisfactory answers. Lydie had gone out im- 
mediately after breakfast to attend a committee meeting of 
some charitable undertaking which was about tp hold a fair 
in the salle Albert-le-Grand. Had she taken the carriage ? 
He thought she had, but couldn’t be certain ; and in place 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 179 

of telling Samuel what the poor man was burning to know, 
he subjected him to an examination as to the condition of 
the Comptoir Fran^ais The company, when well upon its 
legs, had made some changes in its board of directors, and 
in place of men of Bernheimer’s stripe, financiers by pro- 
fession, individuals had been introduced from the world of 
fashion. What might be the import of this change? 
Ploerne asked. What influence would it have on the pros- 
pects of the company ? And the banker, who was figura- 
tively champing the bit with impatience, found himself 
compelled to give an extended account of the motives 
which had induced him to resign the presidency in favor 
of the Due de Bligny. He had not abandoned the direc- 
tion of the enterprise, only his connection with its business 
was less apparent than it had been before. Once the 
Comptoir Fran^ais was fairly floated, it had seemed expe- 
dient to make the board of directors a more exclusively 
aristocratic body, and so make the object of the enterprise 
more clearly apparent to all. This assemblage of princes, 
dukes, and marquises at the head of the Comptoir 
would indicate exactly what the enterprise was intended to 
effect. When once fairly started with his explanations 
Samuel had no difficulty in keeping on indefinitely, and 
while almost unconsciously repeating his stock of phrases 
which were stereotyped upon his mind for the benefit of the 
.shareholders, he kept thinking : “ Why don’t she return ? 
Where can she be ? What can she be doing ? ” Ploerne 
kept talking bank, and it was a wonder how Samuel re- 
strained himself from answering Lydie. At last, when it 
was half past five, a rapid step was heard in the vestibule, 
the door was thrown open, and the comtesse appeared. 
Imagine his disappointment : Lydie had changed her toi- 
lette and had on a charming house dress. The discomfiture 
of the banker was so great that the young woman could not 


A DEBT OE HATRED. 


180 

help noticing it. First giving her husband a little nod, she 
came up to Samuel and said to him, “ What ails you, 
my friend ? You had such a nonplussed air when I came 
into the room that one would have thought you were ex- 
pecting to see some other person. That is my bedroom 
from which I came just now, and no one is ever seen com- 
ing from it save my husband or myself.” 

He shook his head with a sufficiently insolent expression 
of doubt and made no answer, but his manner and appear- 
ance continued to be so strange that Lydie’s suspicions were 
aroused. A visitor chancing to enter the room just then, 
after she had exchanged greetings with him, she took advan- 
tage of Raimond’s entering into conversation with the new- 
comer to lead Samuel away into a corner. I'hese secret 
conclaves between the banker and the comtesse were of such 
frequent occurrence that no one ever thought of being sur- 
prised by them. Not a day passed that they did not have 
at least fifteen minutes of mysterious conference together ; 
it was what the young woman gayly called confessing Bern- 
heimer. During those few minutes Lydie would receive 
full information as to how matters stood on the Bourse, 
meanwhile allowing her ancient admirer to fumble with the 
tips of her fingers. It was in this way that she acquired 
the information which she imparted to her husband to guide 
his operations, which had been so far profitable ; but now 
there was another matter under consideration than predict- 
ing a rise or fall in the price of shares, and the contact of 
the prettiest hand in the world no longer had power to 
soothe Bernheimer’s ruffled feelings. His emotion was so 
great that he trembled as she made him take his seat at her 
side on a low ottoman in a corner of the salon. They were 
isolated from the others and could converse at will, pro- 
vided only they took care not to talk too loud. 

“ Come now, friend Samuel, tell me what it is that ails 


A DEBT OP //A TEED. l8i 

you ? ’’ said Mine, de Ploern^, with an inquisitive air. 
“ You seem all broken up.” 

“ There is reason for my being so,” rejoined the banker, 
in trembling tones. 

“ Eh ! what has happened ? has Comptoir been going 
down ? ” 

“ No, Comptoir has nothing to do with it. It is some- 
thing more important than that.” 

“More important than Comptoir? You seem to take 
matters very coolly.” 

“ I speak of them as a man who would give the half of 
his fortune to be certain that what he suspects is not true.” 

“ Half your fortune, did you say ? Am I to consider 
that as a firm offer ? ” Lydie laughingly asked, although 
she was beginning to feel a little uneasy. “ Can I do any- 
thing to solve your doubt ? ” 

“You can do everything.” 

“ That seems to be explicit enough. What is the ques- 
tion, if you please ? ” 

Bernheimer lowered his voice and gloomily said, “ The 
question is, what were you doing less than an hour ago at 
the corner of the Rue de Lubeck ? ” 

Lydie raised to the banker’s face two orbs than which 
the eyes of a youthful virgin could not have been more 
candid, and without the slightest expression of astonish- 
ment, without the least change of tone : “ Rue d^ Lubeck — 
where under the sun is the Rue de Lubeck? ” 

“ Do you mean to say that you have never been there ? ” 
Samuel demanded in stupefaction. 

“Never in my life, my friend,” she answered. 

He looked at her with close attention. He was an old 
Parisian and knew everything about lies ; during the course 
of his life he had listened to lies of every sort and descrip- 
tion. It followed that he was not easily to be caught. He 


82 


A DEBT OF HATRED. ' 


said to himself, Either I have been very much mistaken, 
or else she is of a force that I never dreamed of.” He 
spoke and said : 

“ Did you not come out, to-day, just about dusk, from a 
corner house in the Rue de Lubeck ?” 

“ No, my dear Mister Samuel. What should I have been 
doing there ?” 

“You might have been engaged in charitable works for 
all I know,” Bernheimer brusquely replied. 

“That is just what I was doing,” Lydie coolly rejoined, 
“for I spent the whole'afternoon attending a meeting of 
the Maternal Society.” 

“ Ah ! ” ejaculated the banker. A thought suddenly 
came to his mind. He was an intimate friend of the Prin- 
cesse de Stolberg, the president of the society to which 
Lydie claimed that she had devoted her afternoon ; he 
knew that he would meet the great lady at the Fran^ais, for 
she was one of those who never miss their Tuesday, and 
in three minutes he would learn everything that he so much 
desired to know ; if Lydie had been at the-Maternal Society 
that afternoon, it would follow that his eyes had deceived 
him and that the young woman had not been guilty of a 
falsehood. He broke off the conversation that he had 
initiated with such eagerness, and after exchanging a few 
commonplaces, shook hands with Raimond and left the 
house. During an entr^acte of the Demi-Monde that even- 
ing, he made his appearance in Mme.de Stolberg’s box and' 
had no difficulty in obtaining plenty of details in relation to 
the society which occupied such a place in the good lady’s 
mind. He put down his name for twenty-fiye louis’ worth 
of tickets in the tombola, and learned that “ the delicious 
little Ploerne,” who was always an example of faithful at- 
tendance, had been present at the meeting of the society 
that day. It sometimes is the case that too much evidence 


A DEB 7' OF //A TEED. 


i»3 

engenders doubt. The more Bernheimer became convinced 
that Lydie had not visited the suspicious quarter, the more 
did he feel his suspicions working on-hismind. He felt 
pretty well assured that the young woman had some adroit 
method of blinding people to her little frolics, and he 
thought that the vision of the worthy princesse, engrossed 
as it was by a multiplicity of various cares, might not be 
quite so clear as that of a jealous and enamored Samuel. He 
devoted the whole night to reflection upon the matter ; got 
up next morning feeling as if he had not gone to bed, 
and said to himself, “ Ah ! I wonder if I am going to let 
myself get in the way of going without sleep? That’s 
what kills a man. I must put an end to this and get to the 
rights of this business in one time and four motions.” He 
went into his study, rang the bell, and'gave orders to send 
for M. Bricolier. He felt somewhat calmer after he had 
come to this decision, drank a cup of tea, and applied him- 
self to opening and reading his letters. It was noon when 
the combined secretary and journalist entered the room. 
He was dressed with great elegance, curled and perfumed 
as if he had just stepped down from the barber’s chair. 
Bernheimer looked at him with a smile he liked to look at 
agreeable persons, and it was an article of his faith that a 
man’s outward appearance counts for half in hi^ success. 

“ What is there new this morning, Bricolier ? ” he asked, 
motioning the young man to a chair. 

“ Why, Jean Benveret, the painter, is dead. That’s a cir- 
cumstance that will make the two pictures which you bought 
of him a while ago fifty per cent, more valuable — for he 
won’t paint any more now. Then there’s the great crash 
between Sophie Viroflay and the Comte Perekine. He has 
gone back to Odessa, like a good Mingrelian. Farewell to 
the rubles, now ! even if they were of paper ! ” 

At another time the adventures of the fair Viroflay would 


184 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


have interested Samuel hugely, for he had once been greatly 
smitten by her. charms, but now he did not turn a hair. 
The journalist, who was generally accustomed to see his 
gossip well received by his employer, perceived that he was 
having his labor for his pains that morning, so, assuming a 
more serious air, he said : 

“ Is the Bourse opening badly ? ” 

“ Not at all,” Bernheimer absently answered. After hesi- 
tating for a few seconds, he approached the subject which 
occupied his mind : “ Tell me, Bricolier, have you an in- 

telligent and discreet man upon whom you can lay your 
hand for a confidential mission ? It is something delicate 
— extremely delicate.” 

The secretary looked at his employer curiously. He had 
seldom seen him display such agitation, but he knew him 
like a book, so in a semi-confidential manner, as if some 
great state secret were in question, he murmured, “ Is 
there a woman in the business ? ” 

“Yes, there is a woman — but I am not concerned,” the 
banker eagerly added. 

“ That’s a likely story ! ” the journalist said to himself. 
“ As if the old man would be so anxious if he were not in 
the game ! ” He continued aloud, “ So, there is a woman 
in the case — that is a delicate business. There is Varoquer, 
who was very successful in recovering the stolen bonds, you 
will remember, when we loaned him to the Goldsmiths.” 

“Yes, but he is not very bright and is not discreet. 
There are certain things that it won’t do to have leak out. 
The happiness of a very dear friend is at stake.” 

“ Oh, oh ! a married woman ? ” 

“No ! ” Bernheimer exclaimed. “ I can tell you nothing 
unless it is the name of the man who is suspected of being 
mixed up in the case.” ‘ 

“ Given the man’s name, there will not be much trouble 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


185 

in getting at the lady’s. Yes, come to think of it, it won’t 
do to intrust this i)usiness to Varoquer. He is too con- 
spicuous — he would attract attention to himself and learn 
nothing ; the fat would all be in the fire and there would be 
a scandal, especially if the gentleman is at all quick to use 
his fists.” 

Samuel, stretched out at full length upon his fauteuil^ and 
his eyes fixed upon the ceiling, appeared sunk in deep 
thought, but he did not lose a word of what his confidential 
man was saying. The latter tried in vain to decipher what 
was passing in the mind of his employer. He said : 

“If you could give me a few hints, without disclosing any- 
thing that might betray the lady’s name, I should be better 
able to decide what you want. Won’t you give me the 
name of the man whom you desire to have watched ? ” 

Samuel never stirred ; his gaze remained riveted upon 
the cornice, of which he seemed to be studying the moldings 
with great interest, but this name fell from his pursed-up 
lips: “Roquiere.” 

“Roquiere?” Bricolier repeated tranquilly. “In that 
case we shall have to start our investigations in the Rue de 
Lubeck.” 

This answer put Bernheimer’s impassiveness to flight ; 
with face aflame and blazing eyes he leaped from his chair, 
seized his secretary by the arm, and shaking him roughly, 
exclaimed : 

“ Rue de Lubeck ! How do you know that ? ” 

“ I know a great many things,” the journalist replied with 
a laugh. “ As for Roquiere, I am informed that he has a 
small apartment at No. 17 of the street in question. There 
is no witchcraft in the business ; my information was purely 
the result of chance. I have a little friend living in the 
house right next door to the marquis’ Tour de Nesles. I 
should have known nothing of this unless, chancing to 


A DEBT OF HAl'RED. 


1 86 

be at the theater a few nights ago, the person in ques- 
tion had pointed out Roquiere where he was standing in 
the orchestra, and said to me, ‘ There is a gentleman who 
has an apartment on the same floor as mine.’ So, you see 
that if the marquis is mixed up in the business, the lady 
must be acquainted with the Rue de Liibeck ; and it is clear 
that she does go there, as you showed by your manner when 
I uttered the name of the street.” 

“ It is really extraordinary, what you tell me there,” 
Bernheimer said, in an awestruck tone. 

“ The hand of Providence is in it ! ” 

“ How long has Roquiere been living .there ?” 

“ For three weeks, or thereabout. He did not visit the 
house at all during the first fortnight — it is only during the 
last week that he has been coming there regularly.” 

“ Every day ? ” Bernheimer agitatedly inquired. 

“That I cannot say,” Bricolier replied, with a straight 
face, for he was now assured that Samuel was acting on his 
own account, and that the person whose happiness was so 
dear to him was no other than himself. 

“ You understand now, Bricolier, that there is no longer 
any need of employing a detective in this case. Thanks to 
you, I know all that I wished to know — and all that there 
remains to do can now be done by ourselves.” 

“ Ah, ah ! and in what can I be of service to you ? ” 

“ What is the matter with you this morning ? ” exclaimed 
Bernheimer. “ What, you have a friend next door to the 
nest that I wish to keep an eye on, and you ask me what 
you can do ? Why, you can do everything. Is she intelli- 
gent, this friend of yours ^ ” 

“ Extremely so.” 

“ And reliable, I suppose ? Well, my dear sir, oblige me 
by sending a telegram to your friend in the Rue de Lubeck 
asking her to come and breakfast with us ; and be so good 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 187 

as to request her to keep an eye on what takes place among 
her neighbors. Don’t let her know too much of the busi- 
ness ; women are cunning : she will know as much as we 
want her to know, you may depend on it. Let there be no 
name mentioned ; be very particular about this. What we 
want to know is whether Roquiere’s visitor goes there 
still, on what days, and at what hour. When you shall have 
given me this information, I will consider what to do next. 
Ah ! by the way, go to the cashier and get a hundred louis. 
You can buy a handsome bracelet for that sum and give it 
to your friend.” 

“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you!” Bricolier inter- 
rupted. “ She will believe that she is dealing with the 
Shah of Persia, or with a Russian grand-duke. With your 
permission, I will give her the money out and out.” 

“ Do as you think best, provided only you are successful 
in gaining your end.” 

Bricolier bowed to his employer and left the room. 

While Samuel, distressed by the thought of Lydie’s 
doings, was laying his trap to catch the pretty comtesse, 
chance was at work preparing to bring Raimond and 
Therese again into each other’s presence. The fair which 
had engrossed so much of the Princesse de Stolberg’s time 
and attention was to be held at the salle Albert-le-Grand, 
and had been advertised through the length and breadth of 
Paris by means of cards, at the foot of which was printed 
this inscription : “ With compliments of Mme. X., who will 
be grateful for any contribution, no matter how small.” 
Among these Mme. Xs, the Comtesse de Ploerne’s name 
flourished in triumph, and Bernheimer had received his card 
of invitation at the same time as Roquiere. The day pre- 
ceding the fair, Sam had called upon his divinity about five 
o’clock in the afternoon and had found her considerably 
agitated. 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


1 88 

“ You know that I am to have a counter to-morrow,” said 
the young woman, “ and they have put me in charge of the 
brooms and brushes. I was not well pleased, as you may 
imagine, and I let them have a piece of my mind. Why did 
they give the bonbons to Mme. de Bligny, the champagne 
to Mme. Tresorier, and the dolls to Mme. de Fontenay, 
rather than to me? Brushes and brooms, that is a fine 
counter to give me ! Do you know the reply that the 
princess made me ? ‘It is for the very reason that the post 
is a thankless one that we give it to you. The ladies of 
whom you speak would not have sold a franc’s worth, while 
you will make a great deal of money out of it. It is a 
standing rule with us always to give the most disagreeable 
tasks to the prettiest and most attractive women.’ What 
answer could I make to that ? But it will be all the worse 
for my friends; they will have to come there with full 
pocket-books. My honor is at stake and I mean to sell my 
brooms as dear as if they were set with diamonds. So, 
friend Sam, you know what you have to depend on.” 

He came prepared to the sale and showed himself equal 
to the occasion. He would not have hesitated to purchase 
Lydie’s stock four times in succession, to put it up for sale 
a fifth time, if it would have redounded to the glory of his 
enslaver. 

The fairs that are held in the Albert-le-Orand hall are 
always under the patronage of extremely devout and very 
influential leaders of society, and they never fail to be 
numerously attended. It is charity’s grand bazaar. On 
the afternoon in question the scene was like a kermehe. 
There was a merry click of louis as they fell into the cash- 
boxes, and charming Comtesse de Ploerne’s stock of brooms 
and brushes was almost exhausted. Bernheimer had just 
made another purchase, paying Lydie five hundred francs 
for the little feather duster that she had employed to brush 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


189 


the dust from her wares. The spacious hall was filled to 
the very roof with the confused uproar arising from the 
voices of the sales-ladies, the small talk of the purchasers, 
and the quick, shuffling tread of the late comers. The 
crowd was so dense that it was hard work for one to elbow 
his way through it. Roquiere had passed five minutes at 
the brush counter at the cost of a considerable sum of 
money, and had seized upon Ploerne as the preserver who 
was to save him from the hands of the copitesse and from 
ruin. It was five o’clock ; outside there was a pelting rain 
coming down, and Raimond, after remaining for a time 
with his wife, had withdrawn into a more tranquil corner, 
where had been stored the reserve stock of goods for sale. 
Seated upon a bench at one side were two Sisters, awaiting 
the conclusion of the sale. They were conversing together 
in a low tone, as if indifferent to all the tumult about them, 
and their faces were concealed beneath their great linen 
caps. One of them wore across her shoulder the broad 
belt of blue ribbon which marks the novices of the order ; 
the other, a woman more advanced in years, was turning 
the pages of a small account-book and attentively consulting 
it. Ploerne had drawn near them ; at that moment the 
novice raised her eyes and, to his great astonishment, he 
recognized Therese. She arose quickly as soon as she 
caught sight of him. The Sister who was with her looked 
at her with mild surprise. The young girl, to end the 
embarrassment arising from the encounter, pointed to the 
comte, and said in a calm voice : 

“ This gentleman is a relative of mine. Sister Marie. 
May I speak to him a moment ? ” 

“ Certainly, my daughter.” 

Therese advanced toward the spot where Raimond was 
standing, speechless and very pale. It had caused him a pang 
to behold Therese in her coarse woolen dress and with her 


190 A DEBT OF HATRED. 

white cap upon her head, a servant to the poor and needy ; 
that Therese whom he remembered in days gone by as the 
spoiled child, so gay and happy. He tried to decipher on 
her face the thoughts of her mind, but it seemed as if the 
sacred robe which she had assumed was impervious to all 
profane emotions, for she was tranquil and undisturbed, 
with a little, sad smile upon her lips, her handsome blue 
eyes resting upon the floor, and that air of candor — ever 
and always that air of innocent candor — which accorded so 
badly with her f^ult. Some time had passed and neither 
of them had uttered a word. They stood facing each other, 
with the length of a man’s stride between them, but had 
any one touched the novice’s hand, he would have found it 
as cold as ice. Raimond could no longer endure the silence 
that was so full of bitter recollections. 

“ I did not expect to see you here, Therese,” he said, try. 
ing to impart some firmness to his voice, which was trem- 
bling with strange emotion. She was silent He continued, 
“ Lydie is here. Have you seen her ? ” 

She nodded her head affirmatively, and replied in tones 
scarcely above a whisper, “ Yes, I saw her from a dis- 
tance.” 

“ Did you not speak to her?” 

“ No.” 

“ Why not ? lam sure she would have been glad to em- 
brace you.” 

Th^rese’s lids closed tightly as if she were endeavoring 
to restrain herself from uttering what was in her mind. She 
averted her face, then said with feigned indifference, “She 
was very busy ; I did not wish to disturb her.” 

Raimond was silent. Everything in Therese’s manner 
aroused a sense of uneasiness in him. He was vaguely 
aware that it was she who ought to be confused, and yet 
somehow she seemed to look down on him. Once before 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


191 

he had been conscious of this feelmg, and it had caused him 
many an anxious doubt. At last he said, somewhat bit- 
terly, “ You and she once lived together like sisters ; is 
she now so distant from your heart that you treat her with 
such ceremony ? Have your feelings toward her undergone 
such a change ? ” 

A faint flush rose to the girl’s pale cheek, and she replied: ' 
“ My feelings are the same that they were a year ago.” 

There seemed to Ploerne to be so much meaning in her 
words that he wished to receive more light ; looking The- 
rese steadily in the face, he said : 

“ Then you must be glad to know that she is happy.” 

“ I have prayed to God every day and with all my heart 
that you might both be happy.” 

Her thoughts were undecipherable. Raimond did not 
dare to be more urgent with his inquiries, and with a feel- 
ing of deep distress, for he saw that the words of the young 
girl were full of a meaning which she was unwilling to ex- 
plain, he asked : 

“ And you, Therese ; are you happy ? ” 

“ Yes, I am very happy.” 

“ Would you like that Lydie and I should come to see 
you at your convent ? ” 

“ I thank you for your kindness in asking, but I would 
rather that you did not trouble my retreat.” 

“ Still, you are not entirely parted from the world, since 
I find you here to-day.” 

“ I am here in accomplishment of a duty with which I 
was intrusted. It is the first time in a year that I have been 
outside the convent, and I shall not leave it again.” 

“ Are you entirely lost, then, to those who love you so 
fondly ? ” 

“ I am dead to the world.” 

“ Have you ceased to love us ? ” 


192 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


“ I love none but God ! ” 

These last words were uttered with a strength of emphasis 
that was almost violent. The girl gave a sigh of relief ; 
she seemed to experience a feeling of joy in thus sun- 
dering the last tie that bound her to her relatives on 
earth. 

Raimond’s face was very pale as he bowed his head 
before her. “What have we done to you? You seem to 
hate us.” 

“ Do not attribute to me thoughts that never entered my 
mind, Raimond,” Therese gently said ; “ you know very 
well that I do not hate you.” 

She had not laid an accent on the “you it might ap- 
ply to Lydie and him in common, and yet Ploerne was 
certain that it was meant for him alone. It was not him 
that she hated, but Lydie ; and the question was, why did 
she hate Lydie ? The comte suffered cruelly. His an- 
guish was expressed so clearly on his face that Therese had 
pity on him. x\ll her bitter feelings vanished, and a great 
wave of tenderness passed through her mind. Laying her 
hand upon Raimond’s arm : “ Enjoy your happiness, and 
possess your soul in peace, my dear cousin,” she said. 
“ Adieu ; be assured that I shall forget neither Lydie nor 
you in my prayers.” 

She bowed gravely and rejoined* her companion. Rai- 
mond did not dare follow her. He did not endeavor to 
decipher his impressions, but felt himself oppressed by an 
overwhelming sensation of uneasiness. He tried to throw 
off his care, and, returning to the throng, directed his steps 
to the counter of his wife. Lydie was radiant. Surrounded 
by the ladies of the committee, she was proudly counting 
the pile of louis and bank-notes in the little basket which 
stood before her. As soon as she caught sight of Raimond 
.she came toward him, and joyfully exclaimed ; 


: A DEBT OF I/A TJ^ED. ^ 193 

- I have sold goods amounting to more than eleven thou- 
sand francs.” 

“ The dear child is a benefactress to us ! ” said the Prin- 
cesse de Stolberg. “ Thanks to her, our poor people will 
live in the midst of plenty.” 

“ Thanks to these gentlemen, you should say,” said the 
young woman. “ All I have had to do was to sell my 
brooms ; they paid for them.” 

One by one the people were leaving the hall and the 
throng was beginning to be less dense. Lydie took her 
cloak from the hands of her servant, exchanged smiles and 
hand-shakes witlr her fellow saleswomen, received a part- 
ing kiss from the princesse president, and made her way 
to her carriage, followed by Bernheimer and her husband. 
The drive home was accomplished in silence. Once out of 
the noise and tumult of the hall, Raimond was at leisure to 
reflect at ease, and his thoughts were not of a satisfactory 
nature. He had not been so oppressed by care in a year. 
What was the enigma that lay concealed beneath Th^rese’s 
attitude? The entire evening he continued to turn the 
subject over and over in his mind with horrible doubts and 
fears. He was in his box at the opera, but had he been 
asked to tell what they were playing it would have puzzled 
him to do so. People came into the box during the y 

he listened to and answered what they said to him uncon- 
sciously. It was with a feeling of relief that he' found him- 
self at last alone in his smoking-room ; and until daybreak he 
strode silently up and down the apartment, sifting and win- 
nowing the terrible thoughts that kept whirling through his 
brain, fluctuating between violent rage and bitterest sor- 
row, enduring the keenest mental agony. But he could not 
forever keep revolving in his head the question: “Why 
does Therese wear an air of innocence if she is guilty, and 
why does Lydie appear guilty when she is innocent ? ” 


194 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


What answer could he make that would be any way satis- 
factory to himself ? He did not know what had happened ; 
he knew nothing save what he had been told. The dead 
man had passed away from life in silence, and had thus 
avenged himself. The only ones remaining who could 
speak were the two girls and Leila. The quadroon alone 
had not been questioned by him ; he now determined to 
have recourse to this last witness. As soon as the servants 
began to move about the house he rang and ordered that 
the housekeeper should be sent to him ; he was sure of be- 
ing uninterrupted in his interview, since Lydie never made 
her appearance before ten o’clock. The colored woman 
was always on hand when there was need of her; she 
seemed to have an instinctive preknowledge of the wishes 
and requirements of her masters, always with the same 
calm, self-confident expression, with the same impenetrable 
brazen face. She came before Raimond with tranquil firm- 
ness and waited for him to speak. He was more embar- 
rassed than she. He felt how unsafe was the ground on 
which he was treading, and would have been glad to take 
himself off and relinquish his enterprise. However, the 
die was cast, and he launched out boldly into his examina-- 
tion. 

“ Leila,” he began, “ I met Mile. Therese yesterday at the 
fair, where your mistress had a counter. She is greatly 
changed, and you are doubtless aware that she is in a con- 
vent. You are the only person to whom I have not spoken, 
during the year just passed, of what happened at Beaulieu. 
You have the entire confidence of your mistress — you must 
know a great deal about those occurrences.” 

A light came into the quadroon’s eyes and her lips moved 
as if about to shape themselves into a smile, but she uttered 
no word, curious to see how far her master would go. He, 
deeply embarrassed by the confidence that he was about to 


A DEBT OF HA TEED. 


^95 


make, angry and humiliated that he was obliged to put him- 
self on a level with this servant, hurriedly resumed his 
questioning, desirous of having the matter over with as soon 
as possible : 

“ You are posted on all that happened ; it was to you that 
the Italian addressed his earlier letters. Do you think that 
the fault committed by — by Mile. Letourneur was to be at- 
tributed to some violent outburst of passion ? For as for 
me, I can’t see my way clearly in the incident.” 

The housekeeper preserved her impertubable aspect and 
never opened her mouth. Then Raimond, advancing upon 
her, with a manner that was almost threatening, de- 
manded : 

“ At the time of my return they had been meeting for 
a long time in the garden and in the small pavilion. I 
am right, am I not ? I am not mistaken in what I 
say ? ” 

Leila answered, for there was no way of getting out of it, 
“You were told so, were you not ?” 

“ Yes, I was told so. She confessed everything ; but in 
such a way, with such a proud air of innocence, that I am 
compelled to ask myself the question whether she had not 
some hidden reason for not attempting to exculpate her- 
self. Come, Leila, you have seen her as she was going to 
her interviews with that man — are you quite certain that it 
was she ?” 

“ And if it was not she, who could it have been ? ” the 
woman violently asked. 

Ploerne grew pale and the perspiration stood in drops 
upon his forehead. “Yes,” he said, in a choking voice, 
“it was she ; I made her confess it with her own Ups. But 
it all seems so strange, so improbable, when I reflect upon 
it.” 

“ Improbable ! ” Leila sharply interrupted, for she saw 


A DEBT OE HATRED, 


196 

that Raimond was approaching a line of thought which 
might have unpleasant results for Lydie. “ Improbable, say 
you ? Why so ? Do you suppose that innocence is confined 
to little fair-haired girls like her ? Or is it because she 
seems to be more religious than others? It is hypocrisy, I 
tell you ; nothing but hypocrisy ! She behaved like a crazy 
person, and you may believe me or not when I tell you that 
I would never have had anything to do with the business 
had it not been that I wished to prevent her from commit- 
ting imprudences.” 

“ She showed no grief when she heard of her lover’s 
death ; she seemed dazed and stupefied — nothing more.” 

“ Yes ; but as soon as you were gone she gave way, and 
cried and shrieked so in her room that we were afraid that 
madame would hear her. I am not surprised that she 
wanted to enter a convent after that affair — she ought to 
wear mourning as long as she lives.” 

Ploern^ listened eagerly to Leila’s asseverations, and not- 
withstanding their clearnessand their conformity to the infor- 
mation that he had acquired before, his doubts still remained. 
In listening to the quadroon there had not been a moment 
when he felt that she was telling him the truth. It seemed 
to him that he was enwrapped in a cunningly devised web 
of falsehood in which even she who was its victim had had 
a hand. He felt sick at heart, and determined to pursue 
his investigations no further ; he thanked the woman and 
dismissed her. He remained stretched upon a sofa, inca- 
pable of thought, with a sensation of disgust, as if he could 
trace an odor of impurity floating in the atmosphere of the 
apartment. In the mean time Leila had entered Lydie’s 
room. The young woman had just awakened, and fresh 
from her slumbers, with bright eyes and rosy cheeks, was 
taking a cup of tea in bed before arising. Beholding traces 
of vexation upon the visage of her dusky confidant she 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


197 


sank back upon her pillow, and asked with an expression of 
supreme disgust : 

“ Well, what bad news are you bringing me so early in 
the morning ? ” 

“ Your husband sent for me and plied me for half an 
hour with questions about the Beaulieu business ; he 
wanted to find out ever so many things about Yherese.” 

“ What did you tell him ? ” 

“ Not more than I felt like telling him, of course. But 
look you, mistress, you will have to keep your eyes open. 
That man is not to be depended on ; he may do you an ill 
turn some day.” 

“ Never fear ! He is not of force to contend with me, and 
the day when we come to measure claws let him look out 
for himself ! ” 

He is violent ” 

“ I will set some one on him stronger than he, who will 
bring him to his senses.” 

“ But suppose you come in collision with him before that 
time?” 

“ I shall know enough to keep out of his way.” Lydie, 
as she lay there, red as a rose among her white laces, spoke 
with frightful calmness. She smiled a cruel smile, and 
added, “Oh ! I hate him ; how I hate him ! He can never 
suffer enough to atone for the evil that he has done me ! ” 

“ At all events, you are now upon your guard.” 

“ Fear nothing ; he is in my power, and the hour is not 
far distant when I will pay the debt of hatred that I owe 
him.” 

Leila gave an approving nod of her head, and prepared 
to assist her mistress with her morning toilette. 


VIII. 


L YDIE had promised herself that her life henceforth 
should be one of hate and not of love, but Maurice de 
Roquiere had upset her calculations. She had singed her 
wings in the fire that had been lighted by her own hands, 
and having determined to make of Maurice a tool upon 
whom she could depend to do her bidding, she found that 
she was now more dependent upon him than he on her. She 
was madly in love with this handsome, young, light-haired 
man, even as she had been before with the handsome, 
dark-haired youth, but for all that she was perfectly-clear- 
headed and mistress of her thoughts and actions. She 
reasoned calmly and used every precaution to avoid detec- 
tion. The situation of the apartment in the Rue de laibeck 
had seemed to her all that could be desired ; she -had been 
there several times and had never met a soul upon the 
stairs or in the halls. She had been greatly annoyed, there- 
fore, upon hearing from Samuel that she had been seen. 
Something must be done. Should she throw Roquiere 
over ? Such a thing never entered her head. To this 
audacious creature, so confident in herself and in her re- 
sources, to retrace her steps in a way that she had once 
marked out for herself seemed a thing that was not to be 
thought of. It seemed a dangerous thing to persist in her 
visits to the Rue de Lubeck, and yet it was necessary to 
have an understanding with the marquis in order to arrange 
their plans for the future, and that they might be at liberty 
to converse together without interruption she must go there 
once more. 

198 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


199 


In the mean time, events that were of no less importance 
to her were in course of preparation, and these were affairs 
connected with the Bourse. Comptou' Franpais, which 
had been taken in hand and pushed by the entire party 
whose interests it represented, had caused disturbances in 
the financial world from which the market had been slow to 
recover. The shares, issued at five hundred francs, had 
soon commanded a premium, and by an upward move- 
ment, the like of which for rapidity no one remembered to 
have seen before, had reached a point where it seemed to 
the prudent dangerous to follow them. This great advance 
had been attended by consequences that seriously affected 
other properties. Rentes had been sold in blocks in order 
to make a turn and had declined ; all the railroad stocks 
were heavy, and the bank itself was no longer able to con- 
trol the price of its own shares. Italians had gone down 
ten francs within the week, and the Spanish loan had a 
severe attack of ^marasmus. A few curb-stone brokers had 
been sold out on the last settling day, but as they were 
mostly foreigners, their downfall had been hailed as a 
national victory. Instead of reducing sail in consequence 
of this perilous state of affairs among other securities, the 
speculators who were working Cofuptoir had only gone 
ahead with redoubled energy and audacity. It seemed as 
if they were possessed by a sudden madness. They ceased 
to put any limit on their profit, and having already driven 
Comptoir up to two thousand, they were now discounting 
the figure of twenty-five hundred. Well-informed men 
like Bernheimer were uneasy, and were beginning to com- 
municate their uneasiness to others. They knew that the 
ministers in council had already given serious considera- 
tion to this formidable advance in the shares of the reac- 
tionary company ; neither were they ignorant that within 
the last week a syndicate composed_[of the six wealthiest 


200 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


banking houses of Paris, all of them belonging, as it hap- 
pened, to the Israelitish connection, had started a bear 
campaign on Comptoir^ and, so irresistible was the upward 
movement, were already out of pocket to the tune of thirty 
millions. Samuel had been brought up to respect these 
great houses, and he had felt his ardor decidedly cooled by 
the appearance in the conflict of thpse whom he had always 
looked up to as his masters and by whom he had been 
treated as a friend. He went to the weekly meeting of the 
board, therefore, animated by sentiments that were new to 
him and that were not in harmony with those held by the 
managers of the concern, and at the very beginning of the 
session there arose a serious difference of opinion between 
the banker and his noble associates. He had come there 
with the intention of opening their eyes to the situation, and 
had found them determined to be blind. With his usual 
clear way of putting things he grasped the question and 
made it evident that Comptoir was selling for more than it 
was worth and that it could not hold its advanced figure. 
He preached prudence to them and demonstrated the 
necessity of strengthening their position. He was wise, 
and he had fools to deal with. A murmur of discontent 
was heard rising in the room ; every face had become hos- 
tile , and sharp words began to make themselves heard. If 
he was uneasy, why did he not retire ? There was nothing 
to prevent him from abandoning those who yesterday had 
been his associates. The company could get along without 
him. Did he believe that he was indispensable ? At these 
words a smile returned to Samuel’s face, which had hitherto 
been very serious. They were coming forward and meet- 
ing his wishes. He felt the heavy responsibility of the 
trust that rested on his shoulders, and by offering him a 
release that he had not cared to ask for, they were antici- 
pating his unspoken desire. He said, in a tone of irony : 


A DEBT OF DA TEED. 


201 


“I assure you, gentlemen, that I am far from failing to 
recognize your abilities, and I have no fear of what will 
happen to the Comptoir if I abandon the management. All 
is, I have always made it a rule never to leave my money in 
a concern where I have no word to say in the control of af- 
fairs. I thought it right to let you know ” 

“ Sell your shares. Make your retirement absolute. We 
can find some one to take your place. Send in your resig- 
nation. How many shares of stock do you hold ?” 

“ Gentlemen, let us not act without reflection,” Bernhei- 
mer said, amid the storm of violent utterances. I do not 
wish to take you at your word — take a week to think over 
the matter ” 

“ No ! Not a single day ! You have shown your dis- 
trust in the company. We no longer have confidence in 
you ! ” 

They crowded around him with angry faces and arms 
threateningly raised against him. The entire assemblage, 
heated by the desire of gain, was seized by an unanimous 
feeling of rage, almost of hate, upon seeing itself opposed by 
some one who dared resist its madness. 

“ Well, gentlemen, the lookout is yours ; I suppose you 
will depose me unless I make haste to offer you my resig- 
nation — and, let me tell you, you will be making the mis- 
take of your lifetime. You will not listen to me — you will 
not be prudent ? You are determined to keep on in the 
road that will land you in the ditch of ruin ? Yes.? Well, 
then, I am your very humble servant and make you my bow. 
I have in my safe two hundred thousand shares of Comp- 
toir stock. 

“ I buy them,” said a squeaking voice. 

The silence that reigned in the room for a moment was 
almost painful. The man who had spoken last had com- 
mitted himself to a payment of forty million francs. He 


202 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


was a thin little man, in a tightly fitting blue frock coat, 
carrying above his high collar a swollen face adorned with 
the eyes of a Chinaman and a scanty yellow mustache. He 
was heir to one of the most illustrious names of France 
and owner of an immense fortune that had come tg him 
through his mother, who was the only child of Sauviat, the 
great manufacturer, who invented the method of making 
paper from wood-fiber. 

“ Monsieur le Due,” Bernheimer replied, “ I will send the 
stock around to you this afternoon.” He made a bow that 
embraced the entire company and said with a smile, “ Now, 
gentlemen, I have no longer anything to keep me here. I 
wish you good luck.” 

And he left the room. A man like Samuel, however, 
could not throw up the management of such a conspicuous 
concern as the Comptoir without his action being attended 
by some excitement on the Bourse. As soon as the infor- 
mation became public property the world of finance was 
greatly exercised, and Samuel’s determination was inter- 
preted as a harbinger of good or evil according as it was 
his friends or enemies who spoke : 

“Without Bernheimer’s support, Comptoir would goto 
the dogs.” “Comptoir, now that it was no longer saddled 
with Bernheimer’s antediluvian methods, would do better 
than ever.” In the mean time the stock receded from its 
top price and went down a hundred francs, but by a supreme 
effort the direction started it again on the up track, and 
when the gong rang at three o’clock Comptoir left off at two 
thousand and twenty on a strong and rising market. Samuel, 
faithful to his understanding with Lydie, had that morning 
sent her a line, “ Sell your Comptoir stock, even if there is 
an advance ; affairs look threatening.” Lydie was in the 
small drawing-room with her mother when the note reached 
her. Mme. de Saint-Maurice had been keeping her room 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


203 


for several days, complaining bitterly of her neuralgic at- 
tacks. Snugly ensconced by the fire the good lady was 
giving vent to her lamentations and describing all the suf- 
ferings that she had endured during the night. Her daugh- 
ter listened to her absently, seated on a little pouf., her eyes 
fixed rrreditatively upon the blazing coals and her fingers 
mechanically rolling and unrolling Bernheimer’s letter. 
There was a frown upon her pretty face, and the red lips, 
drawn back in an unpleasant smile, showed the tips of her 
small, white teeth. She turned her head as the door 
opened ; her husband came into the room. 

He went first to Mme. de Saint- Maurice, and having 
asked her an affectionate question which brought about his 
ears an avalanche of lamentation, addressed himself to 
Lydie : 

“Well, my dear, there is great news this morning, I see 
by the paper. Bernheimer is no longer manager of the 
Comptoir.” 

“ Yes, he has just advised me of the fact.” 

“ What course are we to adopt now ? Does he intimate 
anything to you ? ” 

“ Bernheimer’s retiring from the company is no reason 
why it should go to pieces, is it ? ” 

“ Samuel always was rather reckless,” remarked Mme. de 
Saint-Maurice ; “that was my brother-in-law Letourneur’s 
opinion. That was the reason why they dissolved partner- 
ship. Perhaps he wanted to put Comptoir up too fast ” 

“ I think it is more probable that he wanted to restrain the 
zeal of our friends ! ” 

“ What did the stock do on the Bourse yesterday ? ” 

“ It went up ; but that amounts to nothing. I will step 
around and see Sam shortly and learn what he has to say — 
whether he advises us to hold on or to sell.” 

Lydie remained for a moment reflective ; then apparently 


204 A DEBT OF //A TEED, 

settling a question that she had been debating, said in a 
decided tone of voice : 

“ Bernheimer is of opinion that there will be a further ad- 
vance.” 

“ Then there is no use in my going to see him,” said Rai- 
mond. 

“ I think that you are about right.” 

The moment was a decisive one, and Lydie, without hesi- 
tation, gave her husband the push that was to start him upon 
his downward way along the steep path that ended in ruin. 
It was the first open demonstration of her hatred. The 
plot that she had been secretly preparing was now to be 
carried into effect with fearful rapidity. The loss of his 
fortune would make of Ploerne a broken man and place him 
morally in Lydie’s power. She had taken care to keep her 
own interests distinct from those of her husband, and 
Samuel would manage the money intrusted to him by the 
woman whom he adored in such a way as to make a fortune 
for her at no distant day. And besides, was he not her 
slave, would he not be always ready, at a sign from her, to 
do her bidding ? What risk, then, did she run by ruining 
her husband ? Did she fear to reduce him to despair, to 
drive him to some extreme resolution ? That was the very 
thing that she wished. The moment of fierce delight was 
drawing near ; soon he who had elicited from her her first 
cries of pain, he who had cost her her first tears, would be 
in the hollow of her hand and she would only have to close 
it on him to crush him and be revenged. With fiendish 
satisfaction she said to herself that her work had been well 
done. 

She arose with a marvelous tranquillity of face and man- 
ner, embraced her mother and sat down at the breakfast- 
table facing her husband and conversing freely, as if there 
were no menacing specter between them. And yet, a short 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


205 


note had left the house that morning enjoining upon Ro- 
quiere to be at their trysting place in the Rue de Lubeck 
that afternoon about three o’clock. Lydie left the table, 
gayly humming a tune, and replying to her husband, who 
had asked her what she intended to do during the day, she 
said, giving him a contemptuous look : 

“ I think I will go and see my lover.” 

She made him a ceremonious reverence and retired from 
the dining-room. 

When Maurice de Roquiere had an appointment for the 
afternoon in the Rue de Lubeck, the concierge would ascend 
to the little apartment in the morning and put things in 
order, opening the windows, sweeping the carpet, and dust- 
ing the furniture. Bricolier’s friend, whose eyes were no 
less sharp than the eyes of women generally are who have 
nothing to do but watch their neighbors, had taken note of 
this proceeding, and when she heard a slamming of doors 
in the morning in the adjoining apartment would draw a 
correct conclusion from the circumstance. On the morning 
that we speak of the concierge's broom and duster had com- 
menced their activities later than usual, but, for all that, it 
was little more than twelve o’clock when Bricolier received 
a “ little blue,” which told him of the preparation going on 
in the apartment of the “ young man next door.” A quar- 
ter of an hour later the intelligence had been communi- 
cated to Bernheirner. 

Roquiere that day was conscious of an unaccustomed 
sensation of oppression. Lydie had never before sent him 
such an urgent summons, and he had a presentiment of 
danger. He had seen her the night before at the opera, 
where he had had no opportunity of speaking to her pri- 
vately, but she had looked at him strangely. There was 
something strange, also, in Bernheimer’s manner ; the 
banker, who was in general so affable and friendly, had 


2o6 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


been cold and brusque. Putting all these little circum- 
stances together, Roquiere drew the inference that there 
was something in the wind ; perhaps there was a 
danger threatening. What could it be ? So he came to 
the Rue de Lubeck in good season, never troubling him- 
self to notice, as he passed the adjacent apartment, that the 
door was ajar and that a pair of sharp eyes were observing 
him closely through the crack. He let himself in with his 
pass-key, and, lighting the fire that was ready in the grate, 
cast a glance about him. Everything was in order ; there 
were fresh flowers in the jardinieres ; a little lunch was set 
out upon a table. He tramped up and down the quiet little 
room, keeping in motion by way of beguiling his impatience, 
looking at his watch every five minutes and wondering that 
only a quarter of an hour had passed. When three o’clock 
came he began to be uneasy, for Lydie was always very 
punctual. Surely something serious must have happened 
to detain her. He strained his ear to listen, all to no pur- 
pose ; there was not a sound to be heard in the house. The 
deathly silence weighed upon his heart. At half-past three 
he sank into a fauteuij utterly prostrated, asking himself 
what could have happened and what reason could have 
prevented the young woman from coming. Could he have 
known what was going on within a few feet of him while he 
was striding about the little apartment, he would have had 
more reason still for uneasiness. At five minutes of three, 
with criminal punctuality, the pretty comtesse had alighted 
from a cab at the corner of the street, and having paid the 
driver, had tranquilly made her way to the house. There was 
not a soul to be seen in the street. She had entered at the 
porte cochere and lightly ascended the staircase. She was 
just placing her foot upon the landing when the door of the 
entresol that faced Roquiere’s apartment opened, and before 
she could raise her hand or speak a word, Bernheimer had 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


207 


seized her by the wrist, drawn her into the ante-chamber, 
and closed the door behind him. The rapidity with which 
it had all been done was enough to deprive her of her 
senses. Before she had time to know where she was, Lydie 
had found herself in a small salon tete-a-teie with Samuel, 
who was smiling, though very pale. She opened her mouth 
in an attempt at protest or reproach, but he anticipated her, 
and placing a finger to his lips : 

“ Hush ! do not make a noise ; be calm,” he said ; “ leave 
Roquiere where he is and let us have a little conver- 
sation.” 

“ Your proceedings are ungentlemanly and odious,” in- 
terjected Lydie, beside herself with rage and surprise. “ I 
shall never forgive you.” 

“ I wonder which of us two has more need of the other’s 
forgiveness ? ” Samuel asked, with a glance of irony. “ You 
made a fool of me, madame, and I made up my mind that I 
would show you I am not such an imbecile as you took me 
to be. You can no longer deny your little excursions to 
the Rue de Lubeck, since I have caught you red-handed.” 

“ Your conduct is unworthy of a gallant man ! ” 

“As you please. But a gallant man is easily deceived by 
a pretty woman, and 1 confess that I don’t like to be 
deceived. Therefore I have left my gallantry at home, and 
had recourse to my address. You see that it has stood me 
in good stead.” 

Lydie was not listening to him. She stood before the 
fire-place, very straight and stiff, preserving a disdainful 
silence, waiting, apparently, for Bernheimer to bring her 
disagreeable situation to an end. He pointed to a chair, 
and with an affected air of easiness, said : 

“ Come, my dear child, don’t be sulky. You have fallen 
into the hands of the enemy, and I admit that that is rather 
unpleasant for the first moment ; but reflect, it is only I, and 


2o8 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


you know very well that you can say and do whatever you 
please with your humble servant.” 

She turned her head slightly and cast upon Samuel a 
look of which she knew the power, and, as if conferring a 
favor upon him, took a seat. Then, with a calmness that 
was extraordinary under the circumstances, she said : 

“In the first place, where am I ? ” 

“ You are in my house, or — to speak correctly — you are 
in my house as long as you remain here.” 

“ Are you alone ? ” 

“ Quite alone. I am not known in the house, and no one 
knows who you are. Our secret is safe, therefore, you see.” 

“ How did you learn that I was to come here to-day ?” 

“Aha! that’s my business. Come, Lydie, tell me, why 
didn’t you tell me the truth the other day ?” 

“ How could I tell you ? ” 

“ It would have been frank on your part.” 

“ I don’t know why I should be frank with you.” 

“You are welb aware that I love you and am terribly 
jealous of every one who comes near you. Ah ! what grief 
you have caused me ! And to think that you should throw 
yourself away upon a dude, an addle-pate ; that you should 
risk so much for a fellow like Roquiere ! It is sheer mad- 
ness ! What would happen you if you had no one but him 
to depend on ? Think of being bound for life to that 
nullity ! Why, he could not even supply you with food to 
keep you from starving. What can you have seen to admire 
in him ? ” 

“ He loves me.” 

“ That’s a fine merit to attribute to him ! Every one 
who knows you loves you ; did there ever a man see you 
that he did not adore you ? But to allow yourself to be in- 
fatuated by Roquiere ! a woman like you ! No ! it is 
really beyond belief.” 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


209 


Lydie gave a puzzling smile : “ You do not understand 
me — you cannot comprehend. Some day you will know 
why I selected him.” 

“ How tranquilly you speak of him ! Have you not at 
least the excuse of passion to offer for yourself? ” 

“ Not the least bit of passion.” 

“ T.ydie, you frighten me ! ” 

“ Bernheimer, you amuse me greatly.” 

“Tell me, then, what is the comedy that you are play- 
ing?” 

“ It is not a comedy, it is a drama. You, too, have your 
part to play in it, like the others ! ” 

“ Are you then so coldly calculating ? How coolly you 
discuss your fault, you whom I always believed to be so 
simple, so upright ! Was there no consideration of power 
sufficient to restrain you ? Did you never think of your 
mother, did you never think of your husband ?” 

The blood rushed in a torrent to Lydie’s face, and she 
fiercely screamed : 

“ My husband ! I hate his very name ! ” 

“ You hate him ! and why ? He, the very personification 
of all that is loyal, good, and true.” 

“ Hold ! do not side with him, or you will drive me 
frantic. Yes, I hate him ! I hate him ! I hate him ! It is 
the thought of him that makes me act as I am acting now.” 
While she was speaking everything about her, accent, face 
and gesture, betrayed unreflecting rage. The blood had 
flowed back upon her heart, she was livid ; her lips were 
writhing and her eyes were sunken deeply beneath her 
bro>vs. 

“ You cause me fear ! ” said Bernheimer, and there was no 
exaggeration in his words, for at this moment the charming 
comtesse was revealing herself to him under colors that 
gave him much food for reflection. But a moment before 


210 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


she had been coldly cynical, and her bitter words had almost 
discomfited him ; suddenly she had veered about and lost 
her head, so that now he believed her capable of almost any 
wickedness. Taking advantage of her self-abandonment, he 
determined to let her go to the length of her rope and so 
learn as much as possible of her secret. Pressing her where 
he saw she was most sensitive, he said : “ You are unjust ! 
Ploern6 is a gentleman and a gallant man ; he can have 
given you no reason for your anger.” 

His cunning did not serve him in this case, however. 
Lydie had already recovered her self-control and met 
Samuel’s attack with a bitter smile. 

“Come, my dear child,” he continued, “you won’t deny 
my right to lecture you.” 

“ Is that the reason why you are here ? ” 

“ That, and that alone.” 

“ I did not suppose that you had such unselfish views. 
So, you play the spy on me in the cause of religion, do 
you ? ” 

“ Oh ! what horrid words you make use of. Have you 
such a low opinion of my friendship? I only wished to 
give you a warning for your own good. Suppose that he 
of whom we were just now talking had caught you here 
instead of me, your servant ” 

Lydie gave a horrid smile and muttered between her 
tight-set teeth : 

“ Well ! he would have had Roquiere to deal with ! ” 

The answer that had escaped the woman’s lips served by 
its atrocity to illuminate the situation. In a second, as if 
by the light of a lightning-flash, everything that Lydie had 
said that was incomprehensible to him was made clear ; she 
had selected Roquiere as a bravo, with the design of setting 
him on Ploern^. Yes, there was no longer room for doubt ; 
she had hatched this devilish plot to cause her husband to 


be slain by the other. Beholding .upon Lydie’s face a 
trace of uneasiness, caused by his protracted silence, he 
said : 

“ Come, we have both of us been saying a great many 
foolish things ; let us stop right where we are and take 
time to reflect ; you, particularly. It is fortunate that we 
had this talk together ; bear in mind what I have told you. 
As for myself, 1 do not care to remember what you have 
said to me ; I do not take your words in earnest, and I 
shall live in hope that you will put an end to a connection 
that is unworthy of you ” 

“ That is a matter that concerns no one but myself.” 

“ At all events, you won't see him to-day, for it is now 
half-past four. You will have to explain matters to him ; 
it will be better to tell him that you were not free to come.’* 

“ That will be only the truth.” 

“ Now, my child, come along with me. There is a car- 
riage waiting at the end of the street ; I will set you down 
wherever you desire.” 

She considered it necessary to regain her ascendancy 
over Bernheimer, whom she feared to have alarmed, and 
assumed a gracious and caressing air. She laughed as she 
said : 

“ And the poor fellow who is sleeping there in the next 
room, what is to be done with him ? ” 

“ The beast ! It is more happiness than he deserves. 
Listen ! He is going away.” 

The sound was heard of a door closing upon the corridor, 
and slow steps, dragging regretfully, were heard descend- 
ing the stairs. Lydie and Bernheimer went to the window 
where, from their concealment behind ^ the curtain, they 
beheld Maurice moving off along the sidewalk, his cane 
under his arm and his head hanging upon his breast with 
a woe-begone air. Lydie turned to Samuel, and gayly said : 


212 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


‘‘ The poor young man ! He will never know how much 
he owes you.” 

“ The devil fly away with him ! Now we can go.” 

He put his pretty companion into the carriage and made 
his way, with cane beneath his arm, like Roquiere, toward 
the Champs-Elysees. He was in a ruminating frame of 
mind as he went along, and the scene between him and 
Lydie returned to his memory in its every slightest detail. 
He examined himself with minute attention, and it was 
clear to him that the coolness that had come over him for 
Mme. de Ploerne was a fact beyond a doubt. He no longer 
beheld her through the same spectacles as the day before; 
she had suffered a change and in place of the pretty, at- 
tractive, and careless woman whom he had loved, he saw 
before him a venomous creature whose cruelty and violence 
had inspired him with repugnance. Pursuing his line of 
thought, he remembered the unfriendly silence with which 
Lydie had formerly been accustomed to receive every ques- 
tion relating to Therese. His old doubts as to his god- 
daughter’s sincerity in . assuming the vocation of religion 
again took possession of him, and he again felt the convic- 
tion that there was a mystery between those two women 
with which Ploerne certainly had something to do. That 
Raimond had been guilty of any bad or disloyal action, 
or that Therese had been his accomplice in such action, 
were two things that he could not for a moment conceive in 
his mind as possible ; that good fellow and that candid girl 
were raised too high above suspicion. The presumption 
was, then, that the third one of the trio was the bad one, for 
her fury against Ploerne could only be accounted for on the' 
ground that she had something against him or he had some- 
thing against her ; and the idea that Lydie had something 
that was worrying her conscience became stronger and 
stronger in Samuel’s mind. He had come to the corner of 


A DEBT OF DA TEED. 


213 


the Rue Boissy-d’Anglas and the Avenue Gabriel ; for 
him, who scarcely ever put his foot on the asphalt to take 
a walk, he had unconsciously made quite a tramp. He 
stood for a moment meditating at the curb at the foot of 
the terrace of the Cercle ; then suddenly making up his 
mind, he said, “Yes, I must see Therese.” He signaled 
to a groom to bring up one of the coupes that were standing 
along the curb, and said to the driver, “ Rue Denfert.” It 
was five o’clock when he reached the convent. Therese 
was summoned to the parlor and presented herself before 
her godfather with her grave and gentle aspect. She had 
been in the garden, and her cheeks, which were usually 
rather pale, this afternoon had a little color in them, 
thanks to the fresh, cool air. She was very pretty beneath 
her white nun’s cap, and wore her coarse woolen gown 
with a grace that she had never succeeded in ridding her- 
self of. 

“ Well, my dear child,” said Bernheimer, “ I am here 
again to see how you are getting on and ask if you are in 
want of anything — for you have not yet renounced all ter- 
restrial delights, and if there is anything at all that I can do 
for you ” 

“ I thank you, dear godfather ; I do not know that I am 
in need of anything.” 

“ You have no desire to leave the convent, then ? ” 

“ No, godfather.” 

“ Perhaps you are right, after all ; the spectacle of so- 
ciety is not one that is calculated to afford much pleasure. 
There are lots of horrors, of every description, going on all 
the time, and those people whose happiness would seem to 
be most secure are no better off than the beggars in the 
street. Here you have peace and security, at all events ; 
you have no one but you/self to look to for your happiness : 
you are not afflicted by the selfishness of some one from 


214 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


whom you expected only tenderness and love. Ah ! life is 
full of illusion and disappointment ” 

Th^rese looked at Samuel with surprise and alarm. 
Never before had he given way in her presence to such an 
outburst of misanthropy. He had rather endeavored, when 
they met, to implant regrets in her mind, so as to persuade 
her to abandon her resolution ; and now here he was, all at 
once, taking sides with her and admitting that she might have 
been wise in her conclusions. What motive could he have 
for talking to her in that way ? For what was he trying to 
prepare her mind ? For every word, coming from a man 
of Bernheimer’s shrewdness and reflection, had its value and 
its meaning. She said to him with a sad smile : 

“ Is it I who am to-day to point out to you the advan- 
tages of a life of freedom and reconcile you with the world ? 
Why do you look at things so gloomily to-day ? ” 

He gave her an anxious look, then blurted out : 

“Well ! well ! 1 ought not to have spoken as I did. 

What is the use of worrying you with such things ? Let us 
talk about yourself.” 

“ But I must have some part in the things that seem to 
vex you so, godfather ; is it not true ? ” 

“ What good is there in bothering your head about things 
that you cannot remedy ?” 

“ I can pray to Him who is all powerful, and ask Him to 
intervene.” 

“ You are right. Well, my dear child, pray for Raimond^ 
who is not as happy as he deserves to be.” 

If Bernheimer had been in doubt regarding Therese’s in- 
terest in everything that concerned Ploern^, that moment 
would have sufficed to enlighten him. The young girl’s 
face became as pale as if she had been touched by the fin- 
ger of death. Controlling herself by sheer strength of will, 
however, she did not bend beneath the stroke ; she did not 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


215 


even allow a sigh to escape her. Her lips alone showed 
signs of agitation ; she was praying. Samuel looked at her 
with deep tenderness. He would have given much could 
he have taken her to his arms and consoled her like a 
father, instead of torturing her as he was doing ; but he 
wished to elicit from her a portion of the truth and yet not 
offend her innate delicacy of feeling. So, to spare the girl’s 
noble pride, he continued to dissemble. 

“ Yes, you see, that is one of the many households that 
are going to the dogs as fast as they can. Husband and 
wife were never made to get along harmoniously together. 
Raimond is too grave and serious for Lydie, and although 
he does all he can to please her, she is never satisfied and 
does not treat him as she ought. There is great reason for 
alarm in the future. Why is it that this young woman does 
not love that splendid fellow ? I fail to see through it. 
He gives her everything she wants, almost before she asks 
for it ; he went so far as to impair his fortune in order to 
keep up the expensive way of living that she insists on, for 
he himself does not care for luxury and is simplicity per- 
sonified. Her only thought is pleasure ; her only object in 
life is amusement. I do not believe that she has the first 
principle of religion in her, and not a spark of attachment 
for her husband. What is to be looked for ?” 

Samuel’s words had sounded in Therese’s ears as if she 
were in dream. The past arose before her and Lydie ap- 
peared, false, selfish, senswal, and cruel, with a sneer on her 
lips when she prayed her to spare Raimond and spare her- 
self. Not an evil thing that it was in her power to do had 
she left undone. The triumph of her ambition, the satis- 
faction of her greed, had not availed to soften her, and in 
her hour of victory she still remained implacable. Therese 
murmured in a voice that was not her own : 

“ She was always heartless — and besides, she hates him ! ” 


2i6 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


“ Yes, she hates him. I know that,” Bernheimer quickly 
rejoined. “ She had the impudence to tell me so. But 
why ? Why does she hate him ? ” He stopped, afraid lest 
he might have said too much. 

His eyes were riveted upon Therese as if they would 
read her inmost thoughts ; all his being was on the alert 
with close attention, for he saw that he had reached the 
point when, if the young girl did not speak under the influ- 
ence of her deep emotion, she would never speak. But 
Therese’s mind was a sealed book. She wrung her hands 
in despair ; sobs that she had struggled bravely to restrain 
escaped her lips, and falling on her knees upon the stone 
floor : “ My God ! my God ! ” she wailed. But she gave 
not a word of explanation. Bernheimer could not consent 
to be thus near the revelation that he desired without 
making one more effort to obtain, to tear it from her. He 
continued : 

“ You know it all, do you ? Why do you not speak ? Is 
it, then, so terrible ? ” 

“ Oh, I cannot ! I cannot ! ” groaned the young girl, her 
hands upraised in prayer, weeping and praying, her eyes 
turned upon the great Christ who, upon the parlor wall, was 
writhing amid the shadows of Golgotha. 

“ Have you no love left for Raimond ? Do you know 
that a word from you might be his salvation ?” 

“ Oh ! have pity on me ! you are torturing me ! Have 
pity on me ! ” 

“Tell me only one thing — tell me why she hates him?” 

“ No, no ! I cannot, I cannot tell you ! ” 

“She hates you, too, does she not ? I have known for a 
long time that she does. Is it for the same reason ?” 

“ Ask me nothing, I beseech you ! ” 

“Will you wait, will you be silent until she has brought 
about his death ? ” 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 217 

A strange expression passed over Therese’s countenance. 
She beat her hands together with a despairing cry : 

“ Oh, the wretched woman ! She wishes to avenge the 
other ! ” 

“ The other ! ” Bernheimer cried. “What other ? ” 

“ Oh ! I have betrayed my secret. You have been tor- 
turing me ; you do not know what suffering you have caused 
me in the last half hour. You see that I do not wish to 
speak — and still — No, no ! It must not be — the secret is 
not mine — and if Raimond should know, he would die, 
more surely still, of horror and despair. You are driving 
me frantic with your questions — leave me in peace, dear 
godfather, and if you have a little love for me, watch over him 
— for after what you have told me I know that the danger 
which threatens him is terrible. Oh ! she will show neither 
pity nor mercy. You do not know her. You have not seen 
her at her work. She is a monster ! yes, a monster ! “ 

She ceased, and tears streamed down her pale cheeks. 
Samuel had raised her from the floor, and seated side by 
side, they continued silent, oppressed by the violence of 
their emotion. At last Therese dried her eyes, and looking 
mournfully at her godfather : “From the manner in which 
you question me, it must be evident that the danger to 
which Raimond is exposed is very imminent. From what I 
have said you may understand to what point Lydie is to be 
dreaded. If you would know the entire truth, go to M. de 
Ploerne ; he alone has the right to tell you that of which 
you are ignorant ; but take care ; if you question him, be 
prudent ; and above all make no allusion to his wife. 
Speak to him only of me — yes, of me, alone ! That will 
suffice, if he is willing to explain matters for your instruc- 
tion. In any event, my dear godfather, keep a watchful 
eye on him. From what you have told me I see him men- 
aced in his honor and in his life.” 


A DEB T OF HA TEED. 


2 r8 

Bernheimer took his goddaughter’s hands and drew her 
to him, and, with a last effort of persuasiveness, said : 

“ Come, Therese, it would be such a little thing to tell me 
all about it.” 

“ No ! I cannot,” the young girl again cried, in a tone of 
affright. “ Do not expect me to do it. If I maintained 
silence when all his future was at stake — can I do less now 
that I have accomplished my sacrifice?” 

“ Then your entering the convent was a result of this 
mysterious occurrence? ” 

“ Ask me nothing ! nothing, dear godfather ! ” said The- 
rese beseechingly. “ If you love me, question me no further 
— you cause me dreadful anguish. Adieu ! adieu ! and 
watch over him.” 

She allowed herself to be embraced by Samuel, clasped 
his hand with convulsive strength and left the parlor. 
When in the privacy of his coupe, Bernheimer closed his 
eyes and endeavored to supply the missing links in I'herese’s 
explanation. The main fact, the fact that overshadowed 
all beside, was Lydie’s evident determination to strike de 
Ploerne, and for what reason? To avenge “the other.” 
Who was that other one ; when and how had he made him- 
self manifest in the flesh ? Was he living; or was he dead ? 

Dead, beyond a doubt, since she had spoken of avenging 
him. Dead, too, either by the hand or by the instrumen- 
tality of Ploerne, Samuel knew not which. What, then, 
were the attending circumstances ? What the time, where 
the place, what had been the motive ? Samuel was not far 
from the essential truth of the matter, but the immediate 
causes escaped him, and could not help escaping him. 
The duel at Toulon had been supplemented by an inquest 
conducted with much secrecy and had never become a 
subject of notoriety ; the press, sole disseminator of 
scandals, had not been enlightened by the officers of the 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


219 


law. The navy department, subsequent to a judicial inves- 
tigation of Girani’s papers, had been informed ^hat the 
officers of the fleet were displaying too much trustfulness in 
the reception that they accorded to certain foreigners, so 
that Houchard, Listel, and their companions, having been 
admonished from headquarters, had made up their minds 
to have nothing to say about the adventure. Bernheimer 
was therefore entirely in the dark as to a circumstance that 
would have immediately enlightened him upon the subject 
that he had so much at heart, but he held the end of the clew, 
and to an intelligence as shrewd as his that was almost 
equivalent to saying that '’he would attain his end. His 
mind was made up to take a hand in the business; between 
Raimond and Therese on the one hand, — for he felt that 
theirs was a common cause, — and Lydie on the other, there 
was no room for hesitation. The good cause was incarnate 
in Therese and Raimond, and the bad in that little creole 
she-devil, who had so bewitched him with her airs and 
graces as to make him lose all those observant faculties that 
had hitherto done him such good service in life. 


IX. 


C OMPTOIR stock had never ruled so high as since 
Bernheimer had withdrawn from the company. It 
looked as if he alone had been the cause of stopping the 
boom and moderating its meteor-like advance. The 
banker had been succeeded by Herzog, the great Luxem- 
bourgian financier, and now considered himself a free man 
and watched with interest the phases and fortunes of the 
conflict between the haute ba7ique and the great fortunes of 
the aristocracy. Scruples of conscience restrained him from 
taking part on either side, but he could see that a smash 
was coming, and with that keen instinct of his, almost like 
the scent of the hound, he predicted a decline in the price 
of the stock. Government was commencing to manifest 
uneasiness at the tumble in the funds and railroad stocks 
from which Comptoir had reaped all the benefit, and, dis- 
covering enemies in the holders of the stock, pressure was 
being brought to bear to induce it to interfere in the con- 
flict and ruin the opposition at a single blow by abrogating 
the charter of the enterprise. It will be seen, therefore, 
that the situation was alarming ; but that which was a sub- 
ject of disquiet to Bernheimer only served to inspire in the 
holders of Comptoir stock additional confidence ; with every 
fresh advance of a few points their enthusiastic credulity 
advanced in proportion. The excitement among the clubs 
and in the salons was intense ; all the talk was of Comptoir 
and of the fortunes that had been made or lost within the 
week, according as the speculators were bulls or bears. 
Even the most well informed seemed bitten by a sort of 


220 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


221 


madness, and the shares, which were now selling at five 
times the price they were issued at, seemed to give promise 
to their holders of a profit without limit. The infatuation 
was general, and the combination of banking interests that 
had been formed to oppose the new enterprise, powerful 
and wealthy as it was, had been forced to bend to the 
storm. The losses of the syndicate that had undertaken to 
fight Comptoir were public talk ; three times already it had 
been obliged to seek fresh capital, and its losses were fig- 
ured out as amounting to hundreds of millions. There 
were beginning to be indications of a panic on the Bourse. 
The cooler and more experienced operators, terrified by 
this constant and irresistible advance, that was like a wide- 
spread inundation in its might, lost their heads and changed 
sides, ranging themselves among the bears by way of a 
hedge in case there should be a turn in the course of 
events. Bernheimer alone every day took his position be- 
neath the marble columns of the exchange with a clear 
head. To friends who came to him for advice he always 
gave one unvarying answer, “ Keep out of the business ; 
take your profit if you have one and let the others fight it 
out.” He had closed Lydie’s account and received a sum 
of twelve hundred thousand francs that stood to the young 
woman’s credit. He bundled up the bank-notes, thrust 
them into a pretty box that he bought for the purpose at 
Susse’s, and took a cab to the Rue Rembrandt. He had 
seen nothing of the comtesse since their meeting in the 
Rue de Lubeck, and had not encountered Ploerne within 
the week ; he was desirous of seeing them both, the hus- 
band more especially. He found Lydie in one of the small 
apartments, half sitting, half reclining in a luxurious 
fauteuil, her flowing sleeves permitting glimpses of an arm 
that was as rounded and luscious as a ripe peach. She 
gave him her hand, upon which he generally dwelt with 


222 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


voluptuous lingering as he kissed the white fingers ; but now 
he had come to wiser determinations, and was content to 
give it merely a friendly clasp. She looked at him with a 
bright smile and said in a girlish voice : 

“ Is it all over ? is there to be no more friendship between 
us ? Is there nothing left for poor me in that heart 1" 

Ah ! how great was the influence that she still exercised 
over him ! He thrilled at the caress of her speech, he was 
troubled by the brightness of her eyes, and he had to ad 
monish himself mentally to keep from giving way to her 
irresistible charm. It was with feigned bonhomie that he 
replied : 

Whence those injurious suspicions? What have I done 
to deserve them ? ” 

“You seem very cold to-day, Sam, to your little friend. 
There is no use trying to deny it, you can’t deceive me ; I 
know when people love me and when they don’t !” 

He suddenly became surly. “ AVhat good would it do 
me to love you ? ’’ 

“ Eh ! Who can tell ? ” she gayly said. “ You are not 
persevering, Sam.” 

“ One has not the time to be so at my age.” 

“ At your age ? You are an abominable hypocrite. Why, 
I feel very young, / do ! *^ 

She uttered these last words with a point of irony which 
struck Bernheimer in his most tender spot. He frowned 
and repeated testily : 

“ Very young ; very young indeed ! ” 

He said to himself : “ She is laughing at me into the 

bargain ! Come ! there is nothing more for me to do here. 
Let’s at least assume a virtue.” He took the box, and 
placing it in the young woman’s lap, said to her : 

“ I shall no longer have any deserving in your eyes, now 
that I am about to cease to be of use to you. Here is the 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


result of the speculation that you engaged in under my 
guidance. You intrusted to me two hundred thousand 
francs. I restore you that sum six-fold — that is a profit of 
a million francs. Henceforth, you will not be dependent 
on any one, and if your fancies should ever get you into a 
scrape you will have enough to live on.” 

He was awaiting some expression of gratitude from her. 
She sharply said : 

“ I am very much obliged to you, my dear sir ; but per- 
haps you were a little too quick in selling. Quotations 
have kept advancing steadily since you closed the account ; 
you have made me lose a great deal of money.” 

He looked at her thoughtfully. Her eyes told him that 
she was asking herself if he was really a man of the caliber 
that he was said to be and that she had thought him to be. 
He reflected. “ Besides all the rest, she takes me for a fool. 
It only needed that ! ” He answered her : 

“ Don’t you believe any such thing as that. There is 
nothing in the world equal to a nice little profit, safely 
secured in a box, under lock and key. You have it, keep 
it, and don’t risk losing it.” 

He had risen as if about to go. She was afraid he was 
about to leave her in anger, and rising to her feet, she ap- 
proached him with a coaxing air : 

“ We won’t talk business any more, will we, now ? These 
horrid figures — I detest them, they seem to defile every- 
thing. Come, see if you can’t look a little pleasant. You 
come here wearing the look that you wear on ’change— and 
I don’t like it. See if you can’t find something nice to say 
to me.” 

“ I have done everything that I could, but I despair of 
being successful.” 

“ Is this one of your days of discouragement ? ” 

“ No, it is one of my days of wisdom.” 


224 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


‘‘And what is it that has produced that effect on you ?” 

“ Other people’s folly.” 

She frowned. She was not accustomed to have her ad- 
vances repelled, and was offended by Bernheimer’s obdu- 
racy. She became cold and dry, as when she reproached 
him with having made her lose money at the very instant 
when he was laying a fortune in her lap. She had wounded 
his feelings; he had offended her. They parted with a 
constraint that bordered on hostility. Scarcely had the 
banker closed the door behind him when Lydie, throwing 
off the mask that she had worn, indulged in a scornful 
laugh : 

“ The old fool ! ” she murmured. “ If I wanted to bring 
him back to my feet I could do it with a sign, but I have 
got all that I want from him, for the present, anyway. A 
fortune — yes, it is indeed a fortune, and now I need fear 
nothing in the future.” 

She took the box, counted the bank-notes, and locked 
the whole away within the little desk in her chamber. 

Bernheimer, upon leaving the comtesse, had inquired if 
Raimond was at home. Receiving an affirmative reply 
from the footman, he had sought de Ploerne in his study. 
Lydie’s husband was seated at a table, writing. He arose 
and came forward quickly to greet his visitor, with out- 
stretched hand : 

“ Is it you, my dear Bernheimer ! To what do I owe the 
pleasure of yonr visit ? You generally reserve these favors 
for my wife. Be careful, you will get me into trouble with 
her.” 

“ I have seen the comtesse,” Samuel interrupted ; “ I 
have just left her, but I want to have a little talk with you. 
Tell me, you are interested in Comptoir, are you not ? And 
your interest is a large one ?” 

“ You are right.” 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 225 

“ Has Mme. de Ploerne, within the last ten days, told 
you that it would be best to sell ? ” 

“ No. On the contrary, she has advised me to buy.” 

Bernheimer, notwithstanding the mastery that he always 
kept over himself, could not conceal his surprise. Lydie’s 
plan was commencing to be manifest to him. He went on : 
• “ You are quite sure that she counseled you to buy ?” 

“ If I am sure ! What do you mean ? I wrote out my 
order to my broker in her presence.” 

“ Who is your broker ? ” 

“Tresorier.” 

“ And have you seen Tr^sorier since then ?” 

“ No. What would have been the use ? ” 

“ What would have been the use, you ask ? Why, you 
don’t seem to be aware of what you are doing and of what 
is going on in the market.” 

“ I frequently see the directors of the company, several 
of whom are personal friends of mine. I know all about 
the conflict between our concern and the associated banks. 
1 know, too, that we have been victorious all along the 
line.” 

“ See here, Ploerne, have you confidence in me ? Will 
you tell me frankly how you stand t You know that I will 
not make any bad use of the information. I know more 
about Comptoir than any other man, and I may be able to 
give you a bit of good advice.” * 

“ My dear friend, I have all the confidence in the world 
in you, but in this affair I don’t^think that your judgment is 
unbiased. You have left the ship ; you have ceased to be 
a believer in the enterprise — and still, since you have left 
it ” 

“ Eh ! Sacrebleu ! ” interrupted Bernheimer. “ The 
reason of my retiring was that I would not lend my name 
to a movement which I considered rash and foolish. I de- 


226 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


sired to relieve myself of responsibility in the matter. I 
have not the reputation on the Bourse of being a coward, 
and the man who fails to see the reason why I resigned 
must be blind,” 

“ That’s all very well, but we can’t shut our eyes to the 
evidence ; the facts are there, staring us in the face ; the 
shares have never stopped going up ; they are advancing 
still.” 

“ It can’t last.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ Why not ? Why, because if you pull too hard upon a 
string, it breaks.” 

“ It will not break.” 

Ploerne’s obstinacy seemed to Samuel inexplicable. He 
seemed, by the interest that he took in the subject, to be 
making it a personal matter. The banker, desirous of learn- 
ing how he stood, determined to push him still further. 

“Well, my dear friend, all I can say is that your ardor 
greatly surprises me. Only a few months ago, when the 
question came up of taking some shares, your repugnance 
seemed to be as strong as your infatuation is great at this 
day.” 

“ I did not know then with whom I was to be connected.” 

“ And now you do know ? ” 

“ Yes, they are all friends of mine.” 

“ Yes, and that’s what makes the matter all the worse ! A 
concern that is controlled by Herzog, the greatest scamp 
in all Europe ! — and when I say that, I say a great deal. A 
board of directors recruited from among the world of 
fashion ” 

“ Don’t speak evil of the board — since yesterday I am a 
member of it.” 

Bernheimer could not have been more astounded if the 
ceiling had fallen without warning on his head ; but he was 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 227 

not the kind of man to give way for long to his surprise. 
The blood rushed to his face, and he exclaimed : 

“ Raimond, who told you to take that step ? ” 

“ My wife.” 

“ And the step is taken — it is irrevocable ? ” 

“ I have handed in my written acceptance.” 

Bernheimer thumped the table so violently and let fly 
such a terrible oath that the sailor bounded on his chair. 
“ But are you stark mad, then, have you taken leave of your 

senses ? And she — she ” He was on the point of saying, 

“ She whom I warned,” but checked himself in time and 
continued : “ Thank the Lord, there is yet time ! Ah ! 
you have put your foot in it nicely — and you were so 
sly about it ! Have you taken your seat at the board 
yet?” 

“ Yes, I sat there yesterday afternoon.” 

“ It won’t have been noticed ; sit down here at the table 
and write out your resignation.” 

“ It is impossible ! ” 

“ Impossible ? The only impossibility is that you should 
stay in. See here, you don’t appear to understand what I 
am telling you. Do you wish to be hauled up before a 
criminal court ? ” 

“ A criminal court ! ” 

“ Yes, I mean what I say. That is just the risk that you 
are running. Do you wish me to explain how they go to 
work to engineer a boom like the present one ? It is a very 
simple matter : the directors simply use the capital of the 
company to purchase its shares on the Bourse. The reason 
why I stepped out was that I did not care to be mixed up 
with a business like that. The safe of the Comptoir is 
stuffed full with shares that have been taken up in this way, 
for account of the concern ; but an operation of this kind 
must come to an end sooner or later, and when the end 


228 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


does come the street will witness such a smash as it has not 
seen in a long time.” 

“ The board knows nothing ” 

“ The board is made up of men who know about as much 
as you do of questions of finance ; they all bear high- 
sounding names and are led by the nose by three or four 
reckless dare-devils, who are in turn controlled by the 
management ” 

“ But the management ” 

“ We won’t say anything about them ; that’s the best 
thing that we can do.” 

“ How do I know that you are correctly informed ? ” 

“ You blockhead ! have I not been in the cavern where 
the dead men’s bones are? ” 

Ploerne remained for a moment thoughtful ; then, ap- 
proaching Samuel, who had gone to the window and was 
drumming nervously with his fingers upon the glass, he 
said : 

“ Will you allow me to repeat your words to my friends 
among the directors ? ” 

“ Not a bit of it ! ” exclaimed Samuel. “ Do you wish to 
see me accused to-morrow of having brought about a panic ? 
Every man for himself ; I have warned you — act on my 
advice.” 

“ It is impossible for me to abandon my friends under 
such circumstances,” Raimond firmly said. 

“ But you are parting with your reason altogether ! ” 
cried Bernheimer. “ We are talking of money matters, not 
of a political conspiracy. Are you going to make a tragedy 
of the matter ? Do you think you will be a traitor because 
you withdraw your stake from the game ? ” 

“ And leave my friends to be ruined ?” 

“ Eh ! so much the worse for them. Do you suppose 
they will listen to you more readily than they did to me ? I 


'A DEBT OF HATRED. 229 

did all I could to open their eyes, and they scoffed at me, 
they insulted me. Let them lie in the bed that they have 
made for themselves. I don’t see anything out of the way 
in that ; what comes out of their pocket will go into the 
pocket of some one else — there will be nothing lost. All 
will be that a few more geese will have their feathers 
plucked out. But I want to get you out of this scrape. 
Don’t be stiff-necked ; look at the matter practically. 
Come ! scribble off two lines, and you are out of danger.” 

“ I will stick to the ship ; it is all, or none.” 

“ Go to the devil I ” cried Samuel in a huff. “ You are 
making me a splendid return for my kindness.” 

“ I will wait.” 

“ Very well, wait. You will see.” 

Bernheimer, well informed as he was, had not believed 
that the crash was so imminent. The concession that he 
had compulsorily made to Ploerne’s obstinacy was to have 
serious consequences. 

“ I suppose I may repeat what you have just told me to 
to my wife ? ” 

“ No ! not a word.” 

“Are Lydie and you no longer on confidential terms?” 
Raimond inquired with a smile. 

“ We won’t bring a woman into affairs that are as serious 
as these are. Have I your word that you will divulge noth- 
ing of what I have told you ? ” 

“Yes.” 1 

“ Good ! but take my word, lose not a minute’s time — and 
sell — sell your stock the first thing you do.” 

“ In any event, I thank ^you for your kind solici- 
tude.” 

“ Ah ! that is because some one whom I love very deeply 
is greatly interested in you.” 

“ Who is that, pray ? ” Raimond asked, with surprise. 


230 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


“ Th^rese.” 

Ploerne changed countenance. He became somber 
and thoughtful. “ Ah ! Therese— yes. Have you seen her 
recently ? ” 

“ I parted from her to come here.” 

“ Poor Therese ” 

“ Why do you say that ? She is very happy.” 

“ Very happy ” the comte repeated. “ So much the 

better. Did she mention my name to you — favorably ?” 

“ How could she do otherwise ? ” Ploerne bowed his head 
and was silent. “That is just what she does when I speak 
to her of you,” said Bernheimer. “ She bows her head and 
says : ‘ Poor Raimond ! ’ ” 

At these words Lydie’s husband blushed and manifested 
a certain constraint, as if he felt ashamed. He was saying 
to himself : “ Why does Therese compassionate me ? 

Should she not rather hate me ? And what reason has she 
for considering me unhappy ? She has seen nothing of me 
since my marriage, therefore her compassion must have 
reference to something that happened previous to that time. 
What can that something be ? ” He shuddered, he clenched 
his fists convulsively. Anything like an allusion to the 
painful occurrences which had succeeded his return to 
France was torture to him. He had maintained a deter- 
mined silence upon this obscure epoch in his life, but it had 
not been forgotten. In the depths of his mind there re- 
mained a doubt, like a fire smoldering beneath ashes that 
a breath of air would serve to light again. Samuel’s insid- 
ious words had restored this doubt to life, and the comte, 
forgetful of the banker’s presence, forgetful, too, of his 
financial troubles, had fallen into a fit of dangerous musing. 
Why did Therese say : “ Poor Raimond ” ? She was the vic- 
tim, he was the executioner, and yet it was from her that 
the expression of pity came. Could she have for him other 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


231 


sentiments than those of hate and horror ? and still she had 
solicited Bernheimer to interest himself in him. He heaved 
a deep sigh, smote himself upon the forehead with his 
clenched fist, and murmured with an air of anguish : 

“ How to be assured ?” 

Bernheimer’s voice replying, “Be assured of what?” re- 
called him to himself. He appeared surprised to behold 
the banker sitting there, but a feeling of burning interest 
led him to ask : 

“ Did Therese ever tell you why she entered the con- 
vent ? ” 

“When I asked her the question, she always said that it 
was her vocation that had taken her there — but I never 
believed her. Quite recently, as I .was again trying to get 
an explanation from her, she cried, manifesting great agi- 
tation : ‘ If you would know what were my motives, ask M. 

de Ploerne.’ ” 

“She made you that answer? And what was her tone 
in speaking to you ? Was she angry ? Did she execrate 
me ? ” 

“ Why, no ! She spoke of you in terms of the deepest 
affection.” 

“ It cannot be !” Raimond interrupted in a choking voice. 
“ It cannot be ; if so, then the whole question is reopened.” 

“ The whole question ? But what is it, then, I ask 
again ? ” 

“ She hates me, I tell you ; she cannot help but hate me. 
Oh ! it must be so ! ” Ploerne exclaimed. “ Was it not my 
hand that smote him whom she loved ! yes, smote him unto 
death. But I did not know then that he was loved by her. 
The wretch ! If he had but spoken I should have been 
spared all this. He would not, and so I killed him.” 

“ You killed him ! And are you sure that she loved 
him?” 


232 


A DEBT OF HATRED, 


“ She told me so with her own lips — on that dreadful 
evening when I surprised her at the rendezvous that the 
unhappy man had given her.” 

“ Therese — a rendezvous ! ” Bernheimer interrupted. 
“ You are crazy.” 

“ If the man was not there for her, for whose sake, then, 
was he there?” Ploern^ cried, in a terrible voice. “You 
are again compelling me to consider that dreadful question 
which has tortured my mind so many times. If it was not 
Therese — who was it, then ? ” 

Samuel stood speechless before the spectacle of his friend 
in such distress. 

“ Answer ! ” the young man cried. “ What do you believe 
to be the truth — or rather, what-did Therese tell you ? ” 

“ Nothing; upon my honor, nothing.” 

“ Then what did she mean by bidding you ask me the 
reason of her retirement ? ” 

“ My dear friend, do not compel me to explain to you a 
matter of which I know nothing. It may be that my god- 
daughter alluded to her determination that she formed sub- 
sequent to her mother’s death, and which, you will remem- 
ber, you opposed ” 

“ That is not it.” 

“ Then I cannot give you any information on the sub- 
ject. I was expecting some information from you, and 
what you have given me is of a dreadful character.” 

“ But it did not serve to convince you.” 

“ It surprised me ” 

“ It seemed to you improbable ” 

“ If Therese, as you told me a moment ago, confessed 
with her own lips ” 

Ploerne remained for a moment thoughtful, then said, 
with an effort that was manifestly painful : 

“ Had she not reason for doing so ? ” 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


233 


“ Do you think that she would have destroyed all her 
hopes out of sheer wantonness ? Never think it ! ” 

“ And yet I have thought it many a time, and it was 
torture unspeakable to me. Often, within the year, you 
have seen me melancholy, preoccupied, morose ; you can 
now understand the reason. There were two women in 
the house to which came that wretched man ; two women, 
I say, Therese and Lydie. Do you know, Bernheimer, 
what I have asked myself again and again, even after 
Therese’s confession ” 

“ I told you a little while ago that you were crazy,” said 
Samuel, with affected calmness; “but now you are even 
more mad than you were before. Come, Raimond, do not 
torture yourself thus, and all to no purpose. Therese, 
alas ! told the truth ; it is perfectly clear to me. She had 
a momentary weakness, for which she will atone by a life of 
charity and devotion. Do not look for something different 
from that which she herself commanded you to believe ; do 
not embitter all your life — you have everything to make you 
happy. Adieu ! Be sensible.” 

Ploerne’s eyes filled with tears ; his face was very pale. 
He took Samuel’s hand, clasped it with fervor, and stam- 
mered : 

“ Thanks, Bernheimer ! — adieu ! ” 

He returned to his room, with a look of despair upon his 
face. Samuel, greatly agitated, left the study, and as he 
descended the stairs,' reflected : “ Everything now is clear 
to me as crystal ; the Jezebel is Lydie. Compelled tp select 
the guilty one, between Lydie and Therese how could this 
young man have hesitated, unless he was bewitched ? Is it 
not as plain as day that it was the she-devil with the black 
eyes who did all the mischief, and not that blue-eyed 
angel ? And just think how the whole business is linked 
together ! The fury never forgave Ploern^ for killing her 


234 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


gallant, and now she is dreaming of having him killed in 
turn by Roquiere. Therese is right ; she makes no mistake ; 
and her exclamation, ‘ She wishes to avenge the other one^ tells 
the whole story. But why did she make herself a sacrifice 
for Lydie? Why did she confess a fault of which she was 
not guilty?” He smote himself upon the forehead with 
his hand. Idiot that I am! Therese loved Raimond. 
Struggling among her fears and doubts, beholding Raimond 
ready to perpetrate further deeds of violence, she excul- 
pated Lydie in order to save this unhappy man from the 
effects of his despair. Yes, there is no deceit in her blue eyes ; 
and she had the heroism to sacrifice love, honor, everything, 
and all for the greater satisfaction of a huzzy who laughs 
at her and thinks only of the best way of murdering her 
husband.” 

Upon leaving the house Bernheimer got into a carriage 
and drove off toward his home. As he rode along he re- 
flected : “ I now have the threads of the intrigue in my 
fingers. Lydie, that monster of wickedness, has planned 
matters so as to destroy utterly him who is the object of 
her hatred. She has got him into a financial position where 
he will leave fortune and life, for I know him. At the least 
indication of stain upon his honor he will blow his brains 
out ; and should he not resort to this extreme measure, she 
has in reserve a stout fellow who will rid her of him. 
And to think that I have been one of the principal 
actors in this pretty business ! She has made me move 
like a jumping-jack that they pull by a thread. I hope 
she has had her fill of laughing at me — in company with 
Roquiere, perhaps ! Weil, what remains for me to do now ? 
for it is out of the question that I should let this drama 
be played out without interfering ; it is a duty that I 
owe to my conscience. But how best to fulfill that duty ? 
Shall I put Ploerne on his guard ? Impossible ! Can I put 


4 DEBT OF HATRED. 


235 


pressure on Lydie and compel her to release her prey when 
it is within her grasp ? Impossible ! Shall I warn Roquiere 
of the role that he is expected to play? Again, impossible. 
What, then, is to be done ? Ah ! the meshes of the net are 
very close and the knots are hard to loosen. And yet, I 
must find means.” 

He entered his house, gave a careless look over his let- 
ters and took a seat in the charming Oriental salon where 
Lydie had shone radiant as a star on the evening of his 
fete. He was not there, however, to linger over memories 
of the past ; what now lay before him was to devise means 
of saving Raimond from the twofold danger that was 
threatening him. That which threatened his fortune, al- 
though it was serious, could be passed by for the moment, 
but the menace to his honor was urgent and terrible, for it 
might burst upon him at any moment when he was not 
prepared for it and overwhelm him. Vainly did Bern- 
heimer revolve the problem in his head over and over ; he 
could arrive at no solution that seemed satisfactory ; on 
every side lay danger, whether he acted or abstained from 
acting, whether he spoke or held his tongue ; on whatever 
side he looked for an issue there was disaster to be 
feared. To tell the truth to Ploerne was to kill him ; to 
conceal it from him was to leave Lydie at liberty to lay 
some hideous trap for him. Never, even in the stormy 
days of his most violent financial battles, had Samuel been 
thus harassed. At last he thought, “I must take a night 
to sleep on it.” It was late ; he made a frugal dinner and 
went off to his club to spend the remainder of the even- 
ing. 

While Samuel was thus torturing his wits to find a way of 
opening Raimond’s eyes for him, chance, which does not 
take so many minute precautions, was getting ready to take 
a hand in the game. Ploerne, more deeply agitated than 


236 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


he had been in a year, for that which had been but vague 
uneasiness was now assuming definite form and shape, was 
going over in memory the events that had transpired 
during those twelve months, and as he passed them in re- 
view he beheld in them a significance that he had not found 
there before. The blindness of the lover, which had made 
him sanction all the frivolity and folly of his young wife, 
was beginning to be dispersed, and he was commencing to 
judge Lydie with a severity that terrified him. What had 
seemed to him levity, now appeared more like careful cal- 
culation. All her actions seemed to be linked together in 
logical sequence and to tend invariably to one end — his un- 
happiness and distress. He had a very distinct conscious- 
ness that Lydie had been following a concerted plan of 
action and that that plan had been directed against him. 
The fits of coldness that had caused him so much suffering 
and had so cruelly irritated his passion ; the demands, so far 
in excess of his income, that the young woman had made 
on him to supply her luxurious wants ; the mad extrava- 
gance to which she had abandoned herself, the encourage- 
ment that she had given him to speculate, and then the still 
increasing growth of her ruinous fancies, as if she were en- 
deavoring to see how rapidly she could dissipate his fortune ; 
the distance between him and her that she made greater 
and greater day by day — all, everything, in a word, came 
not from one who was careless or indifferent, but from a 
shrewd, clear-sighted foe, who had stretched for him a vast 
net in whose meshes he was imprisoned and from which he 
was doomed never to escape. He felt as if he were becom- 
ing mad. At last Raimond succeeded in shaking off these 
memories and rested, as if annihilated, incapable of thought 
and heavy of limb, stretched upon the divan in his smoking- 
room. He felt that he had not courage to face his wife ; 
he went out and dined by himself at a restaurant that he 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


237 

might not have to endure the indifferent conversation of his 
acquaintances at the club, and returned to his house early 
in the evening. He feared that sleep would not come to 
him, but his fatigue was heavy on him and he slumbered 
like a dead man until morning. At nine o’clock, without 
having looked at a newspaper, he went out on horseback, 
as was his daily custom. The weather was delightful ; the 
sky was dappled with light, fleecy clouds and vernal airs 
came to him from the copses that lay, green and gold, in the 
bright sunlight. It was a day to make one enjoy living, 
and the frequenters of the Allee des Poteaux came straggling 
along, men and women riders, cheered by the early rays. 
Raimond touched his hat now and then to some distant ac- 
quaintance, and desiring to be alone, entered the unfre- 
quented alUes that descend toward Bagatelle. He put his 
horse to the trot and advanced along the race-course as far 
as the pont de Suresnes ; then made his way back toward the 
Arc de Triomphe through the Avenue de Neuilly. He was 
about to enter the Avenue Friedland on his way home, 
when he beheld a coupe spinning along toward the Champs- 
Elysees, and from it emerged an arm, waving and signaling 
like a semaphore. He was keeping on his way, when he 
heard the familiar voice of the Due de Bligny, one of his 
fellow-directors in the Comptoir, shouting, “ Ploerne, stop ! 
stop, I say ! ” At the same moment the carriage drew up 
beside the curb and the Due jumped out. Raimond of- 
fered his hand, but the Due still continued busy with his 
gesticulation : 

“ Well ! what do you think of the occurrences of last 
evening ? ” 

“ What occurrences do you speak of ? " 

“ What ! Don’t you know ? Have you not seen the 
papers this morning ? ” 

‘‘No. What is it?” 


238 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


“Why, my dear sir, the seizure that was made last even- 
ing at the offices of the Comptoir ! ” 

“ A seizure ! ” 

“ Yes. An infamous trick on the part of the government, 
you know, to break the market for our stock. I'he officers 
took possession of the books, and they are talking of arrest- 
ing Herzog ; perhaps he would be in the jug by this time if 
he had not been called away to Constantinople to look after 
the issue of the new Bulgarian railway loan. He is not 
very likely to return, now ! and if he don’t, what are we go- 
ing to do ? It’s a regular mess.” 

Ploerne reflected in amazement : “ That is just what 
Bernheimer foretold. He was right, and behaved like a 
true friend. He could not have seen that the catastrophe 
was so near at hand, though, or he would not have left me 
without forcing me to sell.” 

“ Why Mon’t you say something?” Bligny exclaimed, 
gesticulating wildly. “ You are in the same boat as the rest 
of us. Are you aware that after ’change yesterday Comp- 
toir had a tumble of five hundred francs ? ” 

“ We are ruined, my dear Due, that is all there is about 
it,” Raimond coolly said. 

“ You seem to accept the situation very resignedly.” 

“ How would you have me take it ? We must look about 
us and try to make our loss as small as possible ; that is all 
that we can do. We shall have to defend ourselves.” 

“ We must see what can be done. We shall meet during 
the day, so Champ-Dieu told me a little while ago. You will 
receive a telegram announcing the hour. And so you knew 
nothing of the business ? My poor friend, I am very sorry 
to have had to communicate such bad news. Well, good- 
morning ! ” 

He got into his coupe again, and Ploerne went his way. 
The evil tidings furnished him with a diversion from his 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


239 


cruel trouble. What to him was his pecuniary anxiety in 
comparison with the wound from which his heart was bleed- 
ing ? He was desirous of reaching home quickly, however, 
for there were certain queries arising in his suddenly awak- 
ened mind that he was eager to have answered. The most 
pressing of all these queries was this : How comes it that 
Lydie, who has always told me that she had accurate in- 
formation from Bernheimer, urged me to buy just as the 
stock was about to decline, and persuaded me to accept a 
seat in the board at the very moment when the position was 
become a dangerous one ? Comparing this view of the case 
with all the recollections that had been torturing his mind 
since the day before, he could not avoid asking himself the 
question if he had not in Lydie a secret and deadly enemy. 
That was the point that he had now reached — this gentle, 
calm Raimond, who for a year had allowed himself to be 
led by the white hand of the wife whom he adored, — to sus- 
pect her of treachery most infamous. 

He came at last to the Rue Rembrandt and entered the 
courtyard of his house. He alighted from his horse, and 
without going to his apartment, as was his general custom, 
went directly to his wife’s. He entered the little salon 
where the comtesse was usually to be found ; it was empty. 
He looked mechanically at the clock and saw that the hand 
was at a quarter of twelve. He crossed the room and 
opened the door of the adjoining bedroom. Lydie was 
seated at her little desk, writing. She turned her head 
slightly, believing it was Leila, but perceiving that it was 
her husband, arose quickly, not without embarrassment, and 
deftly slipped a telegram which she was in the act of writ- 
ing beneath the sheets of blotting-paper of her portfolio. 
Her face instantaneously assumed an amiable expression, 
and, coming forward toward her husband, she spoke as 
follows : 


240 A DEBT OF HATRED. 

“ How ! is it you, all booted and spurred ? What is the 
meaning of this pleasing surprise — or rather, what has hap- 
pened that causes you to infringe upon your habits ? ” 

Raimond stood motionless, a few steps from the young 
woman, his eyes fixed upon the blank sheet beneath which 
the telegram had disappeared. She anxiously followed the 
direction of her husband’s look and instinctively retained 
her place between the desk and him. It was the commence- 
ment of hostilities between those two beings of whom one 
had^ always been the other’s slave, and the tyrant, con- 
scious of the first ferment of revolt, was holding herself 
upon her guard. 

“ Do you know what has happened ? ” Ploerne asked, in 
as calm a voice as he could command. 

“ No, my friend,” Lydie replied, with all possible candor. 

“ Have you not seen the papers ? ” 

“No.” 

Raimond looked about the room in quest of the Figaro 
and the Gaulois, which the young woman was accustomed 
to glance over every morning as soon as she was out of bed. 
He saw nothing of them ; Lydie had nothing to fear ; she 
had left them in her dressing-room. 

“ Well ! the news is that Comptoir has gone under. 
Those whose interest it was to slay it have given it a mortal 
wound.” 

“ Ah ! my God ! you don’t tell me so ! ” said the young 
woman with an expression of terror, clasping her hands. 
It was so artistically done that Ploerne, for a moment, 
wondered if Lydie were not really ignorant of the catas- 
trophe. 

“But how can that be?” she murmured. And her 
features worked, her eyes were suffused with tears. 

“ It is a fact. It is not necessary for me to explain to 
you how serious it is. All that I have in the world— and a 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


241 


little more beside — is involved in the concern. I do not 
suppose that you will reproach me, for you participate, 
morally, in my responsibility, since you have been my 
adviser all along.” 

“ Are you certain that things are so serious ?” 

“There is no longer room left for doubt. But tell me, 
how is it that Bernheimer gave you no word of warning ; he 
who was at the fountain-head of inforiuiition ?” 

“ Likely he was deceived, as so many others have been.” 

A mist passed over Raimond’s eyes and he gave a start ; 
Lydie had uttered the first word that tended to unmask her 
position ; she had concealed the fact that Samuel had given 
her information. He pressed her with home questions : 

“ What has he told you within these last few days ? ” 

“That the prospects of the company continued to be 
excellent.” 

“ And he advised you to keep on buying? ” 

“Yes, to keep on buying, always.” 

“ You are very certain ? Reflect well before you speak.” 

To deny was destruction. Lydie affirmed : “Why, there 
is not the least doubt of it.” 

Raimond gritted his teeth hard. He advanced a step, 
and in a voice that his wife had never heard before ; “Be 
careful what you say,” he said, “ these are serious matters.” 

“ Oh ! mon Dieu," she said, affecting to laugh, although 
a strange sensation of fear was beginning to take possession 
of her. “ What is the meaning of all these questions, as if 
you were a judge upon the bench ?” 

“ Do you mean to tell me that Bernheimer has been tell- 
ing you within the last few days to keep on purchasing the 
stock ? ” ^ 

“What a singular conversation, and how strange your 
manner is ! ” she exclaimed, with a coquettish air. “ Really, 
you are not a bit nice this morning.” 


242 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


‘‘ You are not answering my question.’’ 

She looked him over from head to foot, and placing her 
hands upon his shoulder, said, “ Give me a kiss ! This is 
the first time that you ever came into my room and forgot 
to kiss me.” 

He remained facing her, motionless. “ I await your 
answer.” 

She saw that she must obey ; she had put off replying as 
long as she could. “ Yes, certainly,” she lightly said ; “ he 
gave me no other advice than that.” 

“ How is it, then, that he came to me yesterday and 
begged me to sell ? ” 

“ He did?” 

“ Yes, he did. And he had just left you, moreover. He 
begged me to sell — when he had only a minute before been 
telling you that the stock was a purchase. That is a strange 
way of doing business ! I shall make him give me an ex- 
planation this very day.” 

You cannot have understood him.” 

“ Was it not rather you who misunderstood ? ” 

“I! How could that be ? ” 

“ There has been treachery — there have been lies. Who 
is the guilty one— whose was the interest to ruin me ? for it 
is a question of ruin — nothing more, nothing less. Fortune, 
honor, everything — all that I possess is staked upon this 
enterprise. Was it Bernheimer ? For what reason ? What 
was the strange chance that made him keep- the safe coun- 
sel, the counsel in which lay salvation, for me, and give you 
the advice that led to ruin and destruction ? Who has been 
the traitor — who has lied ? ” 

He had approached her as he spoke, so near that he 
could have touched her. His face was fearful in its livid- 
ity ; it was like a mask of stone. He was no longer the man 
whom Lydie had despised, the man who had been indulgent 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


243 


to the point of weakness, generous to the point of folly, and 
whom she used to call, with the derisive pity that women 
employ toward those who do not keep them in sub*jectio_n, 
“ That poor man ! ” He had but to raise his hand to seize 
her, and the young woman, with secret terror, felt that if he 
once seized her he would crush her as he would an insect. 
She forgot everything, her unfinished telegram, her desk 
and its open drawers. All that it interested her to conceal 
lay at the mercy of him whose interest it was to know every- 
thing, and she recoiled in the direction of the chimney. He 
stepped forward, and resting his hand upon the portfolio 
where she had been writing when he entered the room, with 
a fixed, stern gaze, compressed lips, all his being bristling 
with menace : 

“ Who has lied, who has been the traitor, I ask you, 
Lydie ? ” he repeated. “ Is it Bernheimer, or is it you ? ” 

“ How dare you ask me such a question ? ” exclaimed the 
young woman. 

“Andjjw, will you ever dare answer it? For the last 
fifteen minutes you have been dealing in subtleties and 
equivocations. It is high time for yon to be sincere. Will 
you compel me to learn that which I wish to know other- 
wise than from your lips? Must I have recourse to the 
methods of the detective ? ” 

While speaking and without taking his eyes from off her, 
he had turned over with his fingers the corner of the sheet 
of blotting-paper and now had possession of the telegram. 
She gave a scream and threw herself upon him to wrest the 
little blue paper from his hands. He held it behind his 
back, and with a dreadful smile : 

“ To whom were you writing when I came in ?” he asked. 

Again she threw herself upon him, with the strength and 
suppleness of a tiger, endeavoring to gain possession of 
the telegram, crying ; 


244 ^ A DEB 7^ OF BATTLED. 

“ Raimond ! Give me that paper ! What you are doing 
is unworthy of you — it is ungentlemanly — it is dastardly ! 
You have no right to read that telegram — I will not allow 
it. If you read it — all is ended between you and me, 
forever ! ” 

“I am afraid that it is!” said Ploern6, with cutting 
irony. He cast her from him ; she fell in a sitting posture 
upon a fauteuil in a charming attitude, and hiding her face 
with her hand, gave utterance to deep sighs. Raimond 
read aloud : “ ‘ My beloved Maurice, the mine that has been 
prepared so skillfully has burst. Comptoir has gone to 
pieces. I must see you at once. That fool, Bernhei- 
mer ’ ” 

Raimond read no more ; he uttered a hoarse roar of rage 
and pain, and throwing himself upon Lydie, seized her by 
the arm and raised her to her feet : 

Oh ! vile thing that you are ! Of what slime can you 
be made ? ” 

She had strength left to exclaim : “ Do not condemn me 

unheard ! Let me explain ” 

“ I wish no explanation, but a confession ! ” he inter- 
rupted with a threatening gesture. I command you to tell 
me everything. The man — that Maurice — he is Roquiere 
— is he not ? ” 

As she made no answer, shaking her violently, he cast 
her to her knees upon the floor. She murmured : 

Yes.” 

“ And in the old time — the lover of Beaulieu — the man 
whom I killed at Toulon : the woman, then — was you ? ” 

She clenched her teeth, freed from her alarm and repos- 
sessed by her fury, for now she felt that she had a right to 
hate. “ Yes,” she said, almost with pride, “it was I.” 

Raimond’s heart was stung by a dreadful pang, a pang 
that was divided between his shame to have believed Lydie 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


245 


innocent and his repentance that he had thought Th^rese 
guilty. She was there, before him, at his feet, that mon- 
ster who had been so near her triumph. His brain reeled, 
an ocean of blood seemed swimming before his eyes, and 
with nervous hands he seized the guilty wretch. She 
struggled in her alarm, screaming at the top of her voice, 
resisting with all her strength. Raimond, unconscious of 
what he was doing in the violence of the struggle, had 
thrown Lydie upon a sofa, and, his hands about her 
throat, was on the point of strangling her, when the 
door of the dressing-room opened and Leila appeared 
upon the threshold. She uttered a wild cry and unhesitat- 
ingly rushed upon Raimond. It cost him but a single 
effort to repulse her ; then, with the roar of a wild beast, 
her dark face pale with fury, she snatched from its place 
upon the mantel-piece a long dagger and drawing it from 
its sheath of velvet, hurled herself upon him who was 
threatening death to her idol. Restored to himself, with a 
feeling of shame that he had allowed his wrath so to get the 
better of him, Ploerne released Lydie, and turning upon 
the quadroon, who was just raising the keen, bright blade 
to strike him, gave her arm a wrench, tore the dagger from 
her and taking her by the back of the neck, with the vigor 
of an athlete, hurled her from him into the adjoining room, 
where she fell in a heap on the floor ; then, returning to his 
wife, who was preparing to fly, he ordered her by a gesture 
to remain. She came submissively up to him where he 
stood, somber and thoughtful, and falling upon her knees 
before him, tried to take his hand, wailing : 

“Oh ! Raimond — Raimond ! ” 

He moved away from her with unspeakable disgust and 
said, in muffled tones : “ Spare yourself unavailing hypoc- 
risy. I know now what you are — I am sorry for my vio- 
lence, and I will not give way to it again — but there are 


246 A DEBT OF HATRED. 

things that you must inform me of, for I cannot under- 
stand them.” 

She thought that she was saved. He was master of him- 
self again ; he would not allow himself to be mastered by 
his passion. Upon the whole she found that the situation 
was such as she had desired and had worked to bring 
about ; he, crushed, reduced to the last extremity, wounded 
and hurt, in his honor and in his fortune ; she, strong, 
bold, with a future assured to her, and at liberty to turn 
the weapon in the wound that she had made in Raimond’s 
heart. Nevertheless, she dared not manifest too much 
bravado : his strong hand was still too near. She began to 
speak, gently, humbly : 

“ Give me your commands,” she said. I am ready to 
obey you.” 

He looked at her, shuddering with horror : “ Why have 
you done me so great a wrong ? Why, when I so confid- 
ingly abandoned myself to you, could you not have had the 
honesty and the charity to turn me from you ? It would 
have been an easy thing for you to do ; it would have re- 
quired you but to speak a word, and you would have seen 
me no more. I should have gone away ; I should have 
gone where I might die of grief, far from you.” 

“ I was afraid of you in your despair and rage. You 
came back to me. terrible, menacing, with hands already red 
with the blood of another man. I had not the courage to 
speak.” 

“And you permitted Therese to bear the burden of your 
guilt ?” 

It was she who accused herself.” 

“ Yes, for your defense, for your protection, to shield you 
with her innocence and purity. Did not the immensity of 
this sacrifice seem to you too great? With monstrous self- 
ishness you suffered that generous girl to endure scorn and 


A DEB T OF HA TRED. 


247 


insult, when it was you that should have borne them. Not 
once did you feel the truth coming to your lips. It all 
seemed to you a matter of course.” 

Lydie shrugged her shoulders : “ Her vocation lay that 

way — in the way of devotion. Why should I have thwarted 
it ?” 

“ Good ! ” Raimond exclaimed, “ that is how I like to see 
you. Your mock-mildness was repulsive to me. Be cyni- 
cal — show your natural perversity. It pleases me to see 
you display yourself in all your infamy, in all your perfidy ; 
otherwise I should not know how to justify myself for 
having allowed myself to be duped by you as I have.” 

“ Hard words will do no good,” the young woman coldly 
said. “ We can dispense with them in our conversation.” 

“You accepted Therese’s sacrifice,” Raimond continued, 
without replying to her insolence. “ You allowed it to be 
believed that it was she who was guilty of the fault.' Very 
well ! But tell me, why did you marry me when you might 
as well have remained free ? What was the reason of this 
refinement of ignominy ? ” 

Lydie's stature seemed to swell. Her countenance as- 
sumed a savagely triumphant expression, and with a bitter 
laug^, she said : “ Why ? You ask me why I married 

you ? Because I hated you ! Because the best and safest 
way to be revenged on you was to become your wife. 
Because all the evil that I had sworn to do you might be 
multiplied tenfold by reason of your blind and stupid love. 
You wished me to show myself to you as I am — well ! look 
at me. Ah ! you thought that you could slay the man whom 
I loved and go unpunished ; you hoped that his blood might 
flow and you would never be called on to account for it ? 
Not with impunity did you murder that proud being, so 
beautiful, so noble, whom I adored and who would have 
married me, had it not been for your bloodthirsty interfer- 


248 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


ence. I have repaid you, evil for evil, shame for shame, 
tear for tear ! And that is not all ; Roquiere will kill you, 
unless, like the coward that you are, you hide from him ! I 
think that we are quits.” 

Ploerne had allowed her torrent of venom to roll on un- 
interrupted. He looked at Lydie, her face distorted by 
fury, her cheeks blanched and her eyes wandering, and in 
face of this creature, who had nothing in common with the 
woman whom he had loved, he felt himself overwhelmed 
with a profound sensation of melancholy. His wrath 
had left him, swept away by his contempt. He coldly 
said : 

“ You err. We are ngt quits, for you deceive yourself as 
to the moral worth of him whom you have endeavored to 
avenge — that proud being, so beautiful, so noble, that you 
spoke of. If you believe that he was worthy of the repri- 
sals of’ which you boast yourself, you will have to abate 
something of your pretension. You never heard how and 
where I became acquainted with his good fortune ; I will 
tell you. It was at a bachelors’ breakfast. All were vaunt- 
ing in their cups of their gallant successes, and there, over 
the soiled cloth, among the empty bottles, the amorous tales 
circulated, received by shouts of laughter. There it nvas 
that this hero, so proud, so beautiful, so noble, with the van- 
ity of a traveling salesman, told his story while smoking a 
cigar. I interrupted him — Oh ! why did I not let him go 
on and tell his accomplice’s name without the possibility of 
error ! what woes would have been spared me ! — but my 
rage would not allow me to be patient ; I interrupted him, 
I insulted him, I killed him, this dastard, this coward, who, 
after having cast dishonor on a woman’s name, stammered, 
trembled in his fright, retracted and ate his words, with the 
sweat of anguish on his brow.” 

“ You lie ! ” screamed Lydie. “ You lie ! You know 


A DEBT OFk HATRED. 249 

that there is nothing to prove your scandalous assertion, ^ 
and it is that which makes you so bold ! ” 

“ Undeceive yourself, — there is proof, and the dead man 
himself shall furnish it. Ah ! your revenge is based on 
the consideration that was deserved by this chance-met gal- 
lant, picked up at the roadside, on the respect and esteem 
that he inspired in you. Learn to know him better. That 
handsome lover, that gallant gentleman, turned out upon 
investigation to be nothing more than a common blackleg 
who had been forced to fly his country, living on the pro- 
ceeds of his trade as gambler, and probably as spy, a low- 
lived scoundrel, who, when he had basely compromised a 
woman, ate his words, wrote down a confession that he had 
lied and signed it with his noble name ” 

“ 'Fhe proof ! Let me see the proof ! ” Lydia furiously 
interrupted. 

“ I have carried it with me ever since that time — for it 
was that villain’s condemnation and my justification.” He^ 
took from his pocket-book a folded paper, opened and 
handed it to the young woman. “ You insist on swallow- 
ing this filth to the last drop ? Take it, then, and feast 
upon it.” ✓ 

She took the dead man’s confession in her trembling fin- 
gers, read it twice over, and gave vent to a sob of angry 
humiliation, for all the scaffolding on which she had reared 
her edifice of hate had fallen, and she was buried beneath 
the ruins. Raimond had come forth from the trial un- 
scathed and innocent, greater than he was before, while the 
dead — oh ! the dead ! — it was better that she should drive 
his memory from her mind, so utterly degraded was it. 
She drew near her husband and said, in broken accents : 

“ I am a wretched woman. Everything that I have con- 
ceived in mind and carried into effect is abominable. I can 
never expiate the wrong I have done, but, atrocious as was 


250 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


my conduct, you see that I believed there was an excuse for 
it. I am not appealing to your pity — I have failed to know 
you as you are — I have wronged you and wounded you 
most cruelly. All that I ask of you is to let me repair, as 
far as in me lies, the evil that I have done.” 

“ In what way ?” 

“ This speculation, which has brought ruin to you, has 
made me wealthy. I have more than a million put away. 
Take it, and use it to pay what you owe.” 

“ It is impossible ! I am ruined, and I owe my ruin to 
you ; the thought gives me pleasure.” 

“ At least — oh ! I beg you, I beseech you this — forget 
the man to whom I was writing — M. de Roquiere ” 

He looked her sternly in the face. “ This, madame, is a 
matter that you are not fit to meddle with ; it is a question 
of honor.” 

“ Oh, I well know that I am unworthy ! But I chose 
this accomplice too adroitly. You know not what a terrible 
adversary he is. I beseech you ! What matters what our 
relations have been, now that you know all ? ” 

“You speak truly, indeed, as regards yourself; for you 
the matter is of no consequence, but for me it is. I killed 
the first — I shall try to kill the second ! ” 

“ But it is he who will kill you, unhappy man ! ” 

“That, madame, is my affair.” 

“ But your life is dear.” 

Raimond arose and said with vehemence, “ To whom ?” 

“ To Therese, who has never ceased to love you ! ” 

“ I forbid you to utter the name of that sainted and 
generous girl. You defile it even by speaking it.” 

She was silent, and stood before him, apparently over- 
whelmed by grief. After a moment she said, “ What do 
you order me to do ? ” 

In a deep, low voice he replied, “ Rid me of your presence.” 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


251 

She made a despairing gesture of resignation and mur- 
mured, “ Then I know what remains for me to do.” 

She gave Raimond a last look, and beholding him gloomy 
and impassive, made up her mind that there was no further 
hope left her in that quarter. Opening the door that gave 
access to her dressing-room, she left the apartment. He re- 
mained for some time standing in the same place, listening 
to the indistinct sounds that came to him from the adjoin- 
ing room, victim to a sort of sorrowful torpor ; then suddenly 
an idea broke upon his bewildered brain, illuminating it 
like the fl.ash of a conflagration. Lydie’s parting words, 
“ I -know what remains for me to do,” appeared to him to 
have a fatal significance. He saw in a swift vision, beyond 
the wall that lay between them, the young woman stretched 
in her death agony. Once more, and for the last time, he 
felt a movement of the heart for the woman that he had 
loved so well ; impelled by an instinctive impulse, he tried 
to open the door ; it was locked. He hurried out into the 
corridor to reach the other entrance ; that, too, was locked. 
He was seized by a sort of frenzy. He drew back and hurl- 
ing himself against the door caused the bolt to give way. 
He looked wildly about him ; the dressing-room was empty. 
There were articles of clothing, linen, a silk scarf, lying 
where they had been thrown upon the floor ; the drawers of 
the bureau were all drawn out. An iron safe that Lydie had 
used to keep her jewelry and papers in stood with wide-open 
door. It was evident that she had only stopped to hurriedly 
collect what was of most value, before her flight. The door 
that opened on the servant’s staircase was only partly 
closed, the flowered draperies which served to mask it were 
still floating on the air. Perhaps the young woman had not 
yet reached the street. Raimond’s lips contracted in a 
bitter smile, and he said aloud : 

“ And I was such a fool as to believe that she thought of 


252 A DEBT OF HATRED. 

dying ! Her only thought was to get away. Henceforth 
there will be one more wicked woman in the world to guard 
against.” With a gesture of somber menace, as he turned 
to go to his room, he murmured, “ The lover shall pay 
for both.” 


X. 


S TANDING in the embrasure of a window in her son-in- 
law’s study, unconscious of fatigue, notwithstanding the 
long time that she had been there, so great is her sorrow 
and her grief, Mme. de Saint-Maurice is awaiting Ploerne’s 
return. She is weeping, but no longer gives utterance to 
her accustomed lamentations. Real and cruel cares have put 
to flight her frivolous .complainings and they are no longer 
heard. She knows how basely her daughter has behaved, 
she knows that Lydie is gone without thinking to bid her 
mother farewell, and for two days she has received neither 
letter nor telegram to tell what has become of the fugitive. 
Leila went with her, but where ? The house that yesterday 
was so full of life and movement is now as silent as the 
grave. Bernheimer has been there that morning, early, in 
quest of Raimond, to whom he is to act as second in com- 
pany with Vice-Admiral Rigaud. The banker came in to 
see his old friend, and found her already risen and dressed, 
shivering, although seated before the fire, and trembling as 
well with sorrow as with fever. With entire conviction 
that his friend is right, and unfaltering affection, Bern- 
heimer has placed himself entirely at Raimond’s disposal, 
promising to arrange his business matters and extricate him 
from the abyss into which he has fallen, thus restoring to 
him the firmness that he has need of to avenge his wounded 
honor. For the meeting with Roquiere, which there is no 
possibility of avoiding, promises to be exceptionally serious. 

The young man, a devotee of all kinds of manly exer- 
cises, is equally skillful with the sword and with the pistol. 


253 


254 


A DEBT OF HATRED, 


His seconds have done everything in their power, con- 
sistently with their instructions, to have the duel fought 
with the sword. They know that thei-r friend, like the 
brave and chivalrous man he is, wishes to spare Ploerne. 
If pistols are used this will be impossible ; it will be neces- 
sary to kill in order to avoid being killed ; but Bernheimer 
and Admiral Rigaud have received instructions from which 
they cannot vary. The weapon to be used is the rifled 
dueling-pistol, firing is to be at will, and the distance twenty- 
five paces, with permission to each of the combatants to 
advance five paces. Roquiere has accepted all the proposi- 
tions of his adversary. It .saddens him to think that he 
will be obliged to inflict a serious wound on Raimond. As 
for Ploerne, his will to be avenged is such, as it was at 
Toulon, that he is convinced that he will kill Roquiere. 
Perhaps he will be killed, too ; if so, so much the better ! 
His suffering is so great that death will be a deliverance to 
him. The duel is to take place on private ground at Bil- 
lancourt, and the time is fixed for ten o’clock in the 
morning. 

Standing at the window with eyes fixed upon the street, 
Mme. de Saint-Maurice, suffering anguish unspeakable, 
has been for a long time awaiting Raimond’s return. The 
clock has struck half-past eleven. The conflict should have 
been over an hour ago, at the very least, and Billancourt is 
not so di.stant that one cannot return, using a carriage, in 
three-quarters of an hour. What is going on ? What new 
misfortune has happened them? Must Raimond’s tragic 
death now come to supplement the grief that has been 
caused by her Lydie’s abandonment ? Scarcely able to 
breathe in her affright and dread, Mme. de Saint Maurice 
forgets her fatigue and all her petty grievances, conscious 
only of the misfortune that menaces him whom she loves as 
if he were her son. 


A DEBT OF I/A TEED. 


255 


A carriage rolls rapidly along the street, causing the 
windows to tremble by its rapid movement, diverges toward 
the house and stops before the door. Bernheimer alights from 
it. He is alone. Mme. de Saint- Maurice in her terror darts 
to the door to meet him, running, a thing that she has not 
done before in twenty years, but Bernheimer has flown up 
the stairs so quickly that she meets him face to face in the 
vestibule. Unable to speak for her agitation, she extends 
her arm toward her old friend. He speaks : 

“ Be comforted. He is alive.” 

The old lady’s emotion is so great that if Bernheimer were 
not there to support her she would fall. She has all at once 
become conscious of her weariness, her legs have ceased to 
sustain her, and now, seated upon a tall gothic chair 0/ 
carved oak, she can only weep, wailing : 

‘‘ Oh, my God ! What happiness ! Oh, my God ! ” 

Bernheimer’s countenance, however, remained dark : 
“ Do not rejoice too soon, nor too much. He is alive — but 
is severely wounded. His room must be got ready — I came 
on ahead to attend to the preparations.” 

“ Wounded ! Where ? How ? ” 

“ He has an arm broken and a bullet in the chest-^ ” 

“ In the chest ! ” 

“Yes — the doctor could not get at it to extract it. It 
has probably followed the ribs and lodged in the back — too 
near the spinal column, we are afraid.” 

“ Oh, my God ! ” the poor old lady repeats in consterna- 
tion, “ Oh, my God ! ” 

“ Yes, that is the worst part of the business. The broken 
arm is nothing.” 

“ But how are you arranging to get him home ?” 

“ In a furniture wagon, on mattresses that we suspended, 
hammock-fashion — that was the admiral’s idea I ” 

There was a short silence. Mme. de Saint-Maurice, with 


256 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


an anxiety that interfered with her breathing, her face as 
pale as a sheet, murmured in a tone of vindictiveness that 
was seldom heard from that inoffensive woman : 

“And the other one — M. de Roquiere — what of him ?” 

Bernheimer replied, with a thrill of dreadful satisfaction : 

“ Oh ! he — he is dead.” 

Mme. de Saint-Maurice clasped her hands and said : 
“God is just ! ” Her gaze was fixed intently before her ; 
it seemed as if she were looking into space, far, far away, 
seeking her who had left behind her so much of ruin, of 
sadness, and of mourning. 

“ Come, my dear old friend, let us not waste our time. 
We must think of our poor boy ; he is enduring cruel 
suffering.” 

“Yes, you are right. Forgive me.” And rising again, 
upon her old legs, Mme. de Saint-Maurice hurried away 
with an activity that no one had ever seen her display 
before. 

A quarter of an hour later the great gate of the hotel 
opened to afford admission to the court)^ard to a furniture 
van, upon the seat of which, beside the driver, was Admiral 
Rigaud. The surgeon, a tall, good-looking young man 
with a black beard cut to a point, came forth from the 
interior of the vehicle and Bernheimer hastened to meet 
them. 

“ How is he ? ” the banker anxiously inquired. 

“ He lost consciousness a minute ago,” said Doctor 
Pelicier. “ He had not strength-to stand the fatigue. He 
must be got to his room without a moment’s delay.” 

“ Come along,” said the banker. 

Raimond, when removed from the van, was lividly pale, 
and there were great stains of blood upon the linen which 
covered the upper part of his form. His cloak had been 
thrown over his legs and concealed him as far as his waist- 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


257 


band. The six men slowly climbed the stairs with their 
sorrowful burden, using infinite precaution to spare the 
wounded man the least shock. When they reached the 
chamber they deposited the mattress upon the ground. 
Mme. de Saint-Maurice, terrified by the mournful cortege, 
had taken refuge in a corner near the chimney-piece, gazing 
with eyes big with horror upon her nephew, his bearers, and 
the blood-stained bandages, incapable of speech or movement. 

“ Put him down there on the floor in the middle of the 
room,” said the surgeon. “ That will be the best place for 
him.” He kneeled beside his patient, moistened his temples 
with eau de Cologne, and made him smell the fla.sk. A little 
color came to Raimond’s cheeks; he opened his eyes, cast 
a look around him, recognized his room, his friends, and in 
her corner, where she was frozen by terror, Mme. de Saint- 
Maurice. With a scarcely perceptible movement of the 
head he summoned the poor woman to his bed of suffering. 
She uttered a groan and fell on her knees beside him, 
murmuring' : 

“ My poor child ! My dear, dear boy ! ” 

He had strength left to smile ; he raised his uninjured 
arm, and she took his hand in hers and kissed it with heart- 
felt sobs. She felt some one raising her, and recognized 
the voice of Bernheimer, saying ; 

“ Come, dear lady, you must not remain here. There is 
a serious operation to be performed. Raimond has seen 
you ; he knows that you are here and that you will not for- 
sake him ; that is all that you can do at present. Come 
with me.” 

He led her away. As they were leaving the room they 
met Dr. Rameau, whom Dr. Pelicier had sent for as soon 
as the event of the duel became known. 

Once in Mme. de Saint-Maurice’s apartment he did 
everything in his power to calm her and occupy her mind 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


258 

while the operation was going on, in the midst of a dread 
silence that was disturbed from time to time only by the 
opening or closing of a door. Seeing the old lady’s terri- 
fied condition, her attention constantly strained to catch 
the slightest sound, unable to master her terrible preoccu- 
pation, Samuel resorted to the bold method of speaking to 
her of her daughter, and thereupon that poor-spirited 
woman, who had never seemed to have a will of her own, 
whose only care had been her own petty ailments, displayed 
a strength of mind and a depth of feeling which greatly 
surprised the banker. 

“ You see what that wretched woman’s folly has done,” 
she said. “ Her husband is lying at the point of death and 
another man, almost as guilty as herself, is dead. That is 
what her coquetry and her want of feeling have led to. Oh ! 
I know that I am in part responsible for her faults ; 1 was 
too indulgent ; I loved her too blindly. She was so pretty, 
I thought she was so good ! But I shall do my duty. My 
place is here, at the bedside of this poor young man whom 
1 loved so well ; if Raimond will have me, if my presence 
here is not too painful to him, I shall remain and nurse 
him.” 

She was interrupted by the entrance of a maid, followed 
by the admiral, whose face bore a less anxious expression : 

The surgeons have found the ball,” he said, with an air 
of satisfaction. “ It had taken a downward course toward 
the hip, and came near doing mischief, but Rameau says 
that no vital organ has been touched. There is a broken 
rib and some of the muscles are severed. There will be a 
great deal of patching up to be done, but there is nothing 
that is incurable.” 

“ What are they doing with him now ? ” 

“They are putting his arm in splints, so that he cannot 
move it until the bone sets.” 


A DEBT OP //A TEED. 2^9 

“ Will they allow any one in the room ? ” said Bern- 
heimer. 

“Yes, Ploerne just asked for you.” 

May I go with you?” Mme. de Saint-Maurice en- 
treated. “ I only want to look at him from the door.” 

Raimond was lying at full length upon the bed, his eyes 
closed as if he were sleeping. In a corner were a basin full 
of bloody water and a small pile of blood-stained band- 
ages ; upon a table was the doctor’s case of instruments, 
that it made one’s flesh creep to look at. There was a 
strong smell of iodoform and phenic acid in the air. The 
shade was drawn and the window-sash thrown open. 
Rameau was standing before the fire-place, arranging his 
wristbands and chatting in a low voice with his young 
confrere. Bernheimer approached the bed on tip-toe. The 
wounded man fixed his wandering eyes upon the banker, 
recognized him, and said in a voice that was barely audible : 

“ Bernheimer — Comptoir ? ” His face expressed deep 
anxiety. In the midst of his suffering, notwithstanding his 
weakness, the thought of his financial responsibility was 
present to his mind. 

“Do not allow that to disquiet you,” said Samuel. “I 
will take care of those matters. I am arranging things so 
that you shall be released from all your pecuniary embar- 
rassments.” 

Ploern^’s face was illumined by a look of joy. “ I 
thank you,” he murmured. 

“You must not agitate my patient,” said Doctor P^licier, 
taking Bernheimer by the arm. He led him away from the 
bed toward Rameau, who was about putting on his hat. 

“ Some one must remain constantly with M. de Ploerne,” 
said the great man, “but he must not be wearied by con- 
versation.” 

“ His mother-in-law ? ” 


26 o 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


“That would never do. Later on, perhaps, when he is 
stronger, she may come in.” 

“Shall I stay with him ?” 

“Yes, if you will — but how about the Bourse ?” 

“ Oh ! the Bourse will get along without me for one day, 
as your hospital got along without you this morning. You 
have your assistants — I have my secretaries.” 

The great man shook hands with the bajiker, bowed to 
Mme. de Saint-Maurice and left the room, saying, “I will 
return at six o’clock.” 

The day was an unfavorable one for the wounded man. 
With the approach of evening the fever increased and 
Raimond let fall a few inarticulate words. Bernheimer 
having asked him if he wanted anything, he replied : 
“ Nothing, only I seem to be burning up.” The surgeons 
came back at the time they had said they would. They 
looked at the bandages of the wounded arm ; everything 
there appeared to be all right, but the general condition of 
the patient did not seem to please them, and there was a 
look of anxiety upon their faces. When they had filled out 
their prescription, retiring to Raimond’s study for that pur- 
pose, they manifested to Bernheimer the reason of their 
uneasiness. 

“ He is going to have a bad night. Who is there here to 
remain with you and watch ? Have you any one whom you 
can depend on ? There is no use thinking of Mme. de 
Saint-Maurice ; her strength will not allow it. Are any of 
the servants available ? ” 

“ They are good enough in their way, but they are ser- 
vants.” 

“ Do you wish to have a young man from the hospital, or 
a trained nurse ? ” Pelicier asked. 

“ What would you think of calling in a Sister ? ” said 
Bernheimer. 


26 i 




A DEBT OF HATRED. 

“ A Sister will answer,” replied Rameau. “ Where will 
you go to seek her ?” 

“ Good ! Never mind, I know where to go — I have just 
the thing.” 

“ Very well ; until to-morrow morning, then ! ” 

'i'hey ,took their departure. Samuel returned to the 
room, and leading Mme. de Saint-Maurice away to a cor- 
ner : “ Those gentlemen say that we must have a nurse and 
have left it to me to select her,” he said. “ Stay here with 
our patient until I return.” 

Without further word of explanation he left the house. 
His carriage had been standing in front of the door all day; 
he jumped in, first ordering his coachman to drive to the 
convent of the Ladies of Compassion. He intended to 
bring his goddaughter back with him ; the idea had come 
to him of placing Raimond under Therese’s care. “ No one 
will nurse him better or more carefully than she,” he thought, 
as he was whirled rapidly along toward the Rue Denfert ; 
“ and since that jade has come near killing him, it devolves 
upon this angel to save him.” I'he coupe drew up before 
the convent door ; he alighted and rang the bell. But 
here he encountered difficulties ;* in the first place, it was 
past the hour when visitors were allowed, and then, when 
he applied to speak to the Superior, he was told that she 
was busy and could not be seen. He was so persistent, 
however, that the Sister at the gate was finally frightened 
by the energetic earnestness of the big man ; she let him in 
and said that she would notify their Mother. Some time 
elapsed ; night had fallen, and in that parlor that was so 
familiar to him, but which was now shrouded in obscurity, 
Samuel felt a sensation of melancholy stealing over him. A 
bell rang faintly in the distance, and every stroke seemed 
to fall on the broker’s heart ; he thought that if he could 
but take Therese back with him Raimond was saved, and 


262 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


that if the young girl refused to go with him the wounded 
man must die. The door opened and the Superior entered 
the room, followed by a Sister carrying a lamp. 

“You insisted on speaking with me, Monsieur,” she said, 
in a low, sweet voice. “ Time presses ; I will thank you to 
be brief.” 

In a few words Bernheimer gave his name, explained the 
urgency of the case, and stated that Mile. Letourneur was 
sent for by her aunt. The Mother listened to him with an 
impassive face and finally made answer : 

“ Since 1 have already infringed the regulations of the 
convent once, I do not see how I can refuse to do so a 
second time by summoning Mile. Letourneur to the parlor. 
Your object is very laudable ; the aim of our community is 
to succor those who are in affliction and nurse the sick. If 
you had asked me for one of my "Sisters to take care of your 
invalid I would have given you her, but Mile. Letourneur 
is mistress of her own actions ; you will have to arrange 
with her. I will send her to you.” 

Bernheimer bowed and thanked her ; he took out his 
pocket-book, and extracting from it a thousand-franc note, 
rolled it between his fingers and handed it to her, saying : 

“ Sister, permit me to repay to your poor folks a portion 
of the kindness you have shown me.” 

The good woman bowed her head with a grateful smile 
and left the room. When Therese appeared at the expira- 
tion of a minute or two, she was greatly agitated ; and when 
Samuel took her hand he felt that it was trembling. 

“ What is the matter, godfather? ” she asked. 

“ There has been a great deal of trouble, my dear child — 
but I cannot waste time in giving you all the details. I 
^must tell you what is most urgent ; I know that you are a 
girl of courage, and that I can speak to you without re- 
serve.” 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 263 

He Stopped, for he saw that she had grown frightfully 
pale. She could not endure his silence, and from her heart 
overflowing with anxiety, cried, as if in all the world there 
was but one object worthy of her care : 

“ Is it Raimond ? ” . 

“ Yes.” 

“ He is dead ?” 

“ No. Only wounded.” 

She gave a cry that was full at once of grief and grati- 
tude and clasped her hands in prayer. 

“Your good aunt is completely used up and exhausted. 
There must be some one to look out for that poor boy ; his 
life will depend on the nursing that he receives. We can- 
not look to find in a stranger the unremitting zeal that is 
absolutely necessary. My thought at once turned toward 
you.” 

Therese had listened to Bernheimer with amazement. In 
a single word she expressed what was passing in her mind : 

“ His wife — Lydie — where is she ? ” 

Samuel bowed his head and said, “ She is not there.” 

“ She has left him ?” 

“ Yes.”* 

“ The wretched woman ! ” Palpitating with emotion, 
Therese drew a long breath, and looking the banker stead- 
ily in the face, “Well, godfather, you did right in coming 
for me. Let us go.” 

“ My darling ! I knew what your answer would be.” 
He clasped her to his heart. She released herself. 

“ Let us lose no time,” she said. 

“ Is there nothing that you wish to take with you ? ” 

“ Only my cloak. I will send to-morrow and get what I 
require. Go and wait for me in the courtyard ; I will 
speak a word to the SuperiQr and join you there.” 

They left the room — he through the vestibule, she through 


264 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


the little inner door. He had not been long outside, walk- 
ing up and down upon the flags before the entrance, when 
he saw Therese approaching him through the darkness, 
wrapped in a great gray mantle that covered her fronjhead 
to foot. She showed her permit to the gate-keeper, and, 
followed by her godfather, emerged into the street. When 
seated in the carriage, Samuel told her the history of the ter- 
rible events that had resulted in such a sanguinary catas- 
trophe. There were many of the details that he omitted 
out of consideration for the young girl’s modesty, but she 
knew enough of Lydie’s perversity to supply what was 
wanting. 

“ Yes, that was what I have been afraid of all along,” she 
gravely said. “ I foresaw that she would make Raimond 
very unhappy, but what could I do ? — denounce her to him ? 
Could I have done that?” 

The carriage stopped in front of the hotel in the Rue 
Rembrandt. 'Fhey alighted, and ascending the stairs, 
Therese encountered at the top her aunt, who received her 
with outstretched arms. She returned her embrace with 
sincere affection, but the first word that she uttered was an 
inquiry for the wounded man. “ How is he ? ” 

“ Not so well as we would like to see him. He is very 
feverish, and it seems to me that he is a little delirious.” 

“ Take me to him.” 

In the chamber, that was faintly illuminated by the light 
of a night-lamp, Raimond still lay motionless upon his 
bed. The veins of his forehead were swollen and all his 
face was drawn and pinched from his struggle with the 
'fever. His brow was covered with a clammy perspiration. 
The young girl sorrowfully approached the bed. He 
opened his eyes as he felt the cool touch of her fingers 
upon the throbbing pulses of his wrist, and fixed upon 
Therese an unconscious look. She took from the table 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


265 


the sedative that had been prescribed for him, poured out 
a spoonful and gave it to him to drink, raising him gently 
from his pillow. He smiled as he resumed his position 
and murmured in a low voice, “ Thank you. Sister.” 

“ He did not even recognize me ! ” said Therese, with a 
bitter pang, for she saw how dangerous his condition was. 
She lost courage and could not restrain her tears. 

But she was not one to give way long to weakness ; she 
recovered herself, and in company with her aunt and god- 
father concerted measures so that Raimond should con- 
stantly have one or other of them at his side. It was 
arranged that the young girl should have the first turn to 
watch ; one of the maids was to remain within call in the 
adjoining room, should her services be needed. Bernhei- 
mer would go home, to return at ten o'clock in the morn- 
ing, in order to be on hand when the surgeons made their 
visit. Therese, to keep up her strength, yielded to their 
combined entreaties and consented to go down to dinner 
with Samuel and Mme. de Saint- Maurice. It was half-past 
eight o’clock ; the mournful repast was partaken of hur-- 
riedly and in silence. At ten o’clock, Therese, alone in the 
sick-room, was seated at the bed-foot, listening with pained 
attention to the irregular breathing of the wounded man. 
The early part of her watch passed without incident ; there 
was no change in the appearance of her charge, but after 
a while he began to talk ; the sedative, although it was 
given him at regular intervals, seemed to have no effect 
upon his mind. Haunted by the memory of his duel, 
he retraced in brief phrases its principal events, and 
Therese shuddered as if the dreadful deed were being 
enacted before her eyes. In this way she learned how 
Roquiere, sure of his aim and firing immediately at the 
word, had brought down his adversary. Then she be- 
held Ploerne, covered with blood, his right arm hanging 


266 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


useless at his side, raising himself with a supreme effort of 
the will ; she saw him take his pistol in his left hand, ad- 
vance the prescribed five paces and there, believing that he 
was about to die but determined to kill, putting a bullet in 
the head of Lydie’s lover. She heard the fierce exclama- 
tions of the wounded man, his cries of suffering, his shout 
of triumph. Then, forgetting all about the duel, his 
thoughts were all with her who had been its cause, and his 
wife’s name was constantly on his lips. At one moment he 
would call on her with a tender voice, telling her of his 
love ; then he would address her with entreaties, reproaches, 
and threats. Not once did Therese’s name rise to Ploern6’s 
lips. He seemed to have forgotten her she had no exist- 
ence for him ; it was Lydie, Lydie ever, nothing but Lydie ! 
and in the silence of the night the girl, certain that she 
would be neither seen nor heard, solaced the bitterness of 
her heart by wild, despairing sobs. As she was endeavor- 
ing, her face hidden in her hands, to regain her calmness, 
Raimond’s voice arose on the stillness : 

“ Who is that weeping in the room, here ? ” he faintly 
asked. 

He looked about him, straining his eyes to pierce the 
darkness of the apartment. Therese arose, and coming to 
her patient, placed at his lips the potion that should bring 
him tranquillity. He drank, but, seizing the girl by her 
flowing sleeve, he held her near him and repeated : 

“ Sister, why are you weeping, here in the room, beside 
me ? ” 

She made no reply, fearing that the sound of her voice 
might agitate the wounded man and bring on another par- 
oxysm. He made an effort and raised himself on his elbow, 
and said in a voice so faint that it scarcely reached her ear : 

“ Who can the woman be who weeps at my bedside, un- 
less it be Therese ? ” 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


267 


She drew back and released herself, but as she turned 
her face was exposed to the faint light of the lamp. Rai- 
mond gave a hollow cry and said : 

“ Therese ! It is you, then? Yes, it is true. You can 
return now that she is no longer here. Therese, my poor 
Therese ! I feel how you must have suffered. Oh, forgive 
me ! ” 

She was silent. He went on with increased agitation : 

“ Why will you not speak to me ? Are you but a phantom 
like those I saw before me a moment ago ? Remain here, 
anyway ; you will not do me harm. If you would but 
speak to me, it seems to me that I should be more tranquil. 
If you are here, in the flesh, beside me, it seems to me that 
I should suffer less. Therese, have pity — answer me ! Is 
it you standing there at my bedside, or am I still dreaming 
the dreadful dream of a little while ago ? ” 

She saw that there was more danger in silence than there 
was in words, so, laying her hand upon the burning fore- 
head of her charge, she said : 

“ Yes, Raimond, be calm. It is I. I have left my convent 
to come and nurse you ” 

He interrupted her ; “ Your convent ! It was through 

my fault that you ever entered it. Promise me that you will 
never go back there. You must not leave me, you see. 
There is no one but you can save me.” 

“ Be tranquil ; I will not leave you — and you will recover.” 

“ Oh ! perhaps I shall recover — but forgetfulness, Therese, 
oblivion, is what I pray for — I am so wretched.” 

Tears trickled down his hot cheeks. The young girl, 
with the tenderness of a mother, passed a soft handkerchief 
over his face, arranged his pillows for him, and said with a 
gentle smile : ’ 

“ You must sleep now, so that the doctors may praise me 
when they come to-morrow morning.” 


268 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


Yes, but you will stay here ” 

‘-^Yes, if you are obedient.” 

He said no more, nodded his head twice in sign of assent, 
and in a few moments his more peaceful breathing an- 
nounced that he had yielded to slumber. 

When next morning Rameau and his younger companion 
came to the Rue Rembrandt they found their patient in a 
satisfactory state. The fever had disappeared and the 
wounds presented a favorable appearance. It seemed as if 
Therese had brought good luck with her, as Raimond had 
said the night before. At the end of the week there was no 
longer occasion for anxiety and the wounded man began to 
regain his strength, but with the return of physical energy 
came mental anxiety ; the memory of his misfortune, the 
thought of his financial situation, were constantly present 
to his mind. He could not speak of them to Mine, de 
Saint-Maurice nor to Therese. Bernheimer could have 
thrown some light upon the matter, but he seemed deter- 
mined never to remain in the room unless one of the two 
women was also there. At last Raimond had recourse to 
the young girl and secured her co-operation to bring about 
a tHe-a-teie with the banker, ’ To, when he was closeted with 
Ploerne and subjected to a vigorous interrogation, was 
obliged to answer : 

“ I wanted to put off this conversation until you were 
quite well,” he said to his friend ; but since you are so 
urgent, have your own way ; let us talk.” 

“ How do my affairs stand ? ” 

“ You have paid everything in full — and you have enough 
left to yield you an income of twenty thousand francs.” 

“ How can there be anything left ? 1 was responsible for 

more than I was worth, and only half the capital had been 
called up — isn’t that so ? ” 

“ I found a way of saving something for you.” 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


269 


‘‘Tell me how ” 

. “ What’s the use of bothering your head with details 
now ? Be contented with what I tell you. You know noth- 
ing about business ; of that you must be pretty well satis- 
fied by this time. You were robbed of four millions, just as 
if some one had put his hand in your pocket and taken them 
out. Well ! I captured four other millions for you, that’s 
all there_^is about it. What do you want to know more ? ” 

“ How was the question of the responsibility of the direct- 
ors settled ?” 

“ The case was dismissed, as against them. Only the 
managers and that scamp Herzog were indicted. But you 
need not worry about them — they are sly — they will look 
out for themselves ! ” 

“ And this house that we are in— to whom does it belong 
now ? ” 

“ To your mother-in-law, who bought it in at my instiga- 
tion. You see that you can go ahead and get well in peace ; 
you are not threatened with being turned out of doors.” 

“ How can I ever repay all the kindness that you have 
done me ? ” 

A cloud passed over Samuefs face : “We won’t talk of 
gratitude,” he said ; “ you owe me nothing ; on the con- 
trary, it is I who am still in your debt. What have I to 
overlook ? We have both been weak ; 1 have been as weak 
as you, and even more so. You know what fascination she 
always exercised upon the mind and upon the heart. 
1 have been her victim, even as so many others have 
been.” 

“ You had the merit of seeing through her when the 
critical moment came ; I remained blind until the very 
last,” said Raimond. He was silent for a moment, then 
went on in a lower tone, as if he were ashamed, “ Do you 
know what has become of her ? ” 


270 


A DEB T OF HA TRED. 


“ Yes,” Bernheimer replied, with an appearance of con- 
straint. 

“ Oh, you may speak frankly ! I approach the subject 
with as much repugnance as you, and it is for the first and 
the last time — so let us say to-day what there is to be said 
and make an end of it.” 

‘‘Very well. When she left Paris she went to Nice, and 
from there to Florence. She is now in Naples.” 

“ Is she alone ? ” 

“ With the quadroon, who went with her from here.” 

You pretend not to understand me. I ask you is she 
alone ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ What means of support has she ? I cannot allow her 
to be without money ; that would be giving her an excuse, 
for behaving badly.” 

“ Oh, you need not be uneasy about that,” Bernheimer 
quickly rejoined. “ She is a great deal richer than you 
are.” 

“ That is as I would have it. One more question : Does 
she still go by my name ? ” 

“ No. She is known as the Comtesse de Saint-Maurice.” 

“It is well.” 

He gave his hand to Bernheimer, and the two men sealed 
their sincere affection in a loyal clasp. 

A few days after that Raimond was able to get up and 
spend the day sitting in an easy-chair. It delighted 
I'herese to see him on his feet again, though he was pale 
and very weak, with his arm in a sling. She taxed her in- 
genuity to discover ways of diverting his mind from its 
gloomy cares. Their misunderstanding had passed away 
and left no trace behind ; they were to each other what 
they had been in days gone by. She was a constant 
source of wonder and admiration to Bernheimer. 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


271 


“ You were never more a Sister of Charity than you have 
been since you left your convent,” he said. And alluding 
to her having laid aside her gray dress and resumed the 
apparel that she had worn before the days of her novitiate, 
he added, with a laugh, “ You are a lay angel.” 

Therese, however, had not abandoned her monastic incli- 
nations, and when, after five or six weeks, Raimond was 
entirely well again, she very distinctly manifested her in- 
tention of returning to the convent. 

“ There is nothing left for me to do here now,” she said 
to Bernheimer. As long as Raimond needed attention 
my presence here explained itself, but henceforth there 
would be no reason for it,” 

“ But think of your poor aunt, who is so weak ” 

“ Her life is not in danger.” 

“ Yes ; but the moral support that you give her is in- 
valuable.” 

Nothing that her godfather could say to her seemed to 
shake her resolution. She had determined to leave the 
hotel in the Rue Rembrandt, and leave she would. Samuel 
ceased to oppose her ; he did not feel that he had strength 
to struggle victoriously with that gentle obstinacy. He 
went and found Raimond and told him of Therese’s deter- 
mination. 

“ What you tell me does not surprise me,” said Ploerne ; 
“ I had expected as much. You are astonished at your god- 
daughter’s resolve? You do not understand her. And yet 
it is perfectly plain ; she is acting as she might be expected 
to act ; but let me see if I cannot make her change her 
mind.” 

“ How will you set to work to accomplish that ? ” 

“ I will make it plain to her that by staying here <she will 
be fulfilling a duty.” 

^ After dinner that evening, when Mme. de Saint-Maurice 


272 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


had retired to her room and Raimond and Therese were 
alone together in the salo/i, the former rose and said : 

“ It is a beautiful evening ; suppose we go down and take 
a walk in the garden.” 

Therese threw a lace scarf over her head and a light 
cloak about her shoulders, and they went out. Spring was 
early that year and had brought with it warm weather ; it 
was the end of A-pril, and the air was as warm and balmy as 
in summer. There was no moon to obscure the brilliancy 
of the stars and the air was heavy with sweet odors. 

“ Shall we sit down ? ” Raimond asked. 

‘‘ You are not very strong yet,” sard Therese with a smile, 

and I am afraid that you will overtax yourself.” 

“ No ; I am feeling quite well to-night, but I have a 
serious matter that I want to talk to you about, and I think 
we had better sit down. Does not this evening in the garden 
remind you of anything ?” 

“ Yes. It reminds me of the conversation that we had 
together at the time when I wanted to enter the convent, 
just before Aunt Saint-Maurice came here.” 

“Your memory is good. Well, my dear child, the situa- 
tion is the same now that it was then. You wish to go 
back to your convent and I wish to keep you from doing so.” 

“ That cannot be.” 

“ Why not ? ” 

“ I have already said no to my godfather.” 

“ Your godfather is unaware of what I have determined 
to do, which I must now communicate to you. I am go- 
ing away, Therese ; I cannot remain here ; I have no 
longer the means to enable me to live as in the past, and, 
besides, I feel it necessary to have a change of scene. I 
have known too much misery here ; it would be cruel 
torture for me to continue living here. Should you leave 
the house our aunt would be left alone, and you know what 


A DEB T OF HA TRED. 


273 


need she has of care and affection. You alone can watch 
over- and love her, now that .she upon whom that duty 
naturally devolved has gone away, neglectful of it. Will 
you not grant me this, my dear Therese ? I know that it 
is asking you to make a fresh sacrifice, after the many 
others to which you have devoted yourself with such true 
heroism. You see how it is ; we always are exacting toward 
those who are willing, but it is their virtue that they never 
can resist an appeal to their generosity.” 

I’herese, absorbed in painful meditation, reflected and 
made no answer. All her past had risen before her memory 
as she listened to Raimond’s words ; her jealousy and sad- 
ness, her wrath and her despair, all that she had suffered for 
love of him who was seated there beside her and who could 
dispose of her life as he would. Never, since -the wicked 
woman had appeared before her vision, had she felt such 
peace of mind, such happiness, such serenity. It was an 
instant of triumph that rejoiced that exquisite heart. She 
shed tears that rahi down her cheeks and shone in the dark 
night like two rivulets of silver. 

^MVhy do, you weep, Therese ? ” said Raimond, taking 
her hand. 

Do not prevent me,” she replied. “ It does me good.” 

He looked at her,. and Lydie’s words, in their terrible 
parting interview, came back to his mind; “Therese -has 
never ceased to love you.” He gazed admiringly on the 
lofty face of the noble girl, and sorrowfully reflected : “ I 
have been near happiness and passed it by without seeing 
it. She it was whom I should have chosen ; it was to her 
that I should have stretched forth my hand, but I had eyes 
only for the other one ; I dreamed only of possessing her, 
and now there remains nothing for me to do. I am bound 
forever to the infamous one^ and Therese is parted from 
me for all eternity.” 


274 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


The young girl’s voice interrupted his meditation. 

“I will do as you wish,” she firmly said. “I will aban- 
don my intention of re-entering the convent and remain 
with our aunt. If, however, she— she who has gone away, 
should return, you must restore to me my liberty, for her 
presence would be too painful for me to endure it.” 

“ Yes, if she returns you shall be free to do as you please. 
But we shall see no more of her.” 

Therese shook her head as if in doubt ; then rising, said, 
“ It is late ; let us go in.” 

Raimond had been traveling for two years. The sailor, 
who had visited every sea and looked upon every foreign 
land, knew but little of Europe. He had sailed along its 
coasts during his cruises and anchored in its harbors, but 
the interior was a sealed book to him. He commenced his 
explorations in Spain and from there crossed over to Mo- 
rocco and visited Algeria. He crossed into Greece, and 
passing Italy, where he feared he might meet Lydie, made 
his'way through the Black Sea up into Russia. He took a 
run through Sweden and Germany; and in the more recent 
days had settled down in England, where he had relatives 
and many valued acquaintances. He led a very modest 
life, declining the hospitalities that were tendered him and 
living in hotels and furnished rooms. He had hours and 
days of deep melancholy at times. Only Bernheimer’s let- 
ters, which regularly brought him tidings from Paris, had 
power to restore to him his peace of mind. With great in- 
genuity honest Sam constantly found opportunities of tell- 
ing him of Th^rese’s thoughts and actions. The young 
girl had never written a line to Raimond, and yet he was 
perfectly well informed upon ever}^hing that concerned her. 

Life“passed regularly, almost monotonously, for the young 
girl, in company with her aunt, who kept up still her old 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


275 


habit of complaining. Her sole distraction was her daily 
outing of a couple of hours with the old lady in the carriage. 
They would drive to the Bois, stop in one of the side alleys 
so* as not to be caught in the whirl of gayety in the Allee 
des Acacias, alight and take a walk when the weather per- 
mitted, then re-enter their carriage and return home. When- 
ever Bernheimer came to see them, Therese would talk of 
Raimond to her godfather, and that was her only pleasure. 
In this way Samuel served as a connecting link between 
those two beings who were parted by the fatality of life, and 
devoted himself attentively to his task. He perfectly under- 
stood the workings of Ploerne’s mind ; love could not exist 
where respect had ceased to survive with that high-minded 
Breton, and as the fruit that is rotten falls from the bough, 
so his love for Lydie had died from his heart. As for the 
feelings of his goddaughter, Bernheimer well knew what 
they were. It enraged him to see those two young people 
parted and suffering, far from each other, and he tried to 
find some way of bringing them together, but encountered 
insurmountable obstacles. He had said to Therese one day : 

“ I don’t see why Raimond does not try to regain his 
liberty.” Therese raised her head, but preserved silence. 
“ What does he owe to that hussy, anyway ? Why does he 
not obtain a divorce ? ” 

“ What good would that do him ?” the girl calmly said. 
“ The freedom that he would gain would be only a sem- 
blance of freedom. He would be legally released, but his 
moral responsibility would remain. Divorce avails nothing 
to those who believe that the marriage contract is one that 
binds the parties for eternity.” 

“ Then there is nothing but his wife’s death that can give 
him back his liberty, according to your way of thinking ? ” 
said Samuel, heaving a deep sigh. “Then the chances are 
that he will have to wear his chain and ball to his dying day, 


A DEBT OF HATRED. 


576 

for all those jades have an iron constitution. It is true that 
they have high winds in Italy, and the houses are not 
very well built — a chimney may topple over on her head 
some day.” 

“ I pray eV'ery day that she may live and repent,” The- 
rese simply replied. 

Bravo ! ” exclaimed Bernheimer. 

Henceforth Samuel made no further attempt to solve in 
his favorite way' the situation from which Therese and 
Raimond were suffering in silence, but in his secret soul he 
often addressed invocations to that vague and mysterious 
Providence that holds sway over conflagrations, wrecks, and 
railroad accidents. 

Raimond was at the commencement of his third year of 
exile, and had just returned from a hunting excursion in 
the neighborhood of Inverness with his friend Lord Fitz- 
gerald, when, upon his arrival at his house in London, he 
found on his table a collection of letters that had -been 
awaiting him for a week. His attention was attracted 
by a large envelope that was addressed to him in Bern- 
heimer’s writing. He took it up and opened it before the 
others. He commenced to read, but at the first word he 
grew pale, his vision became dim, and everything seemed 
whirling before his eyes. He passed his hand over his 
forehead and resumed his reading aloud, as if to convince 
himself that he was not mistaken : 

My Dear Raimond : 

I have bad news to give you. It has reached me through my Neapol- 
itan correspondent and relates to your wife. She contracted typhoid 
fever a month ago and died last week. The Corriere di Napoli, a clip- 
ping from which I inclose herewith, will give you the details. 

He threw the letter upon his desk and with a trembling 
'hand took up the cutting from the newspaper. It was 
nothing more than an item on the death of “ that charming 


A DEBT OF //A TEED. 


277 


French woman who for two years had been the delight of 
all Naples.” Notwithstanding all the impassioned atten- 
tions that Prince D. had bestowed on her, the fell malady 
had seized and destroyed this adorable creature. A touch- 
ing circumstance connected with her^ death was, that a 
(juadroon, who had reared her 'from childhood and never 
left her, was unable to endure the sorrow of her loss, and 
was found next day stretched dead beside her coffin. 

Raimond seated himself upon a chair and remained sunk 
in meditation until night ; his servant, coming to his room 
to see why he did not go out for dinner, found him with his 
head resting on his hand in gloomy thought. Recalled to 
himself, the comte resumed the reading of Bernheimer’s 
letter: “I know you too well,” Samuel continned, “to 
doubt that your grief will be great and sincere. You loved 
her fondly once, and great and many as were her faults, she 
was an adorable woman to whom her grace and beauty, 
alas ! made indulgence a too easy matter for us all. She has 
caused you much suffering, but I am sure that your feeling 
for her is one of pity rather than of anger. You will shed 
a tear while reading my letter ; I wept upon hearing of her 
death. Mme. de Saint-Maurice bore the terrible blow 
better than 1 could have hoped. It is true that in these 
melancholy days Therese’s language and manner have been 
beyond all praise, and she found means to inculcate resig- 
nation in her to whom she has truly been a daughter for 
the last two years. And now, my dear friend, do you not 
think that your exile has lasted long enough ? Do you not 
think that you owe something to Therese for what she has 
suffered for us all ? If there is any justice in the world, 
she surely is entitled to be recompensed. You know that 
she is strong enough to keep on bearing her cross and prov- 
ing to us that there must be angels in heaven, since there 
are some still to be met with here on earth ; but you, who 


278 


A DEBT OB\HATKED. 


with a single word can reward her for all that she has 
suffered, will you persist forever in your silence? As you 
told me with your own lips, you once passed your happiness 
by without being aware of its presence, but, more favored 
than many another mdn, happiness has^ been awaiting you 
and awaits you still. You have but to stretch forth your 
hand to grasp it. If you will do so, answer me by a word, 
a single word, and I shall know what to say to Therese. If 
not, farewell ; never show your face here more.” 

Raimond sat for a moment, pensive and motionless, 
among the fast descending shades of night. In the dim 
obscurity of memory he seemed to see a pale face illumin- 
ated by great black eyes, whose charming lips, parted in a 
melancholy smile, murmured, “ What! are you, too, going 
to be faithless? I am not to be the only woman who has 
received your vows ? How could you reproach me with 
fickleness, when you are yourself so forgetful ? Do you 
not fear to see me come and show my face between you and 
the new companion of your bosom ? Will you not always 
remember how sweet were our kisses; how languorous my 
glances ? Am I not yours for all your lifetime ? ” And the 
disturbing phantom drew near, near enough almost to touch 
him ; he inhaled the troubling perfume of its breath, he be- 
held and admired its voluptuous pallor. Raimond made a 
movement as if to repel the dangerous vision, and suddenly 
the charm was broken. In place of an exquisite counte- 
nance he beheld only a distorted, grimacing mask, the per- 
fect image of Lydie as he had seen her last. It inspired 
him with horror, and immediately rising in its place ap- 
peared the gracious and angelic features of Therese. • Then 
he hesitated no longer, and brave in conscience, certain of 
his heart, seated himself at his table and wrote Bernheimer 
these words alone : “ I will return.” 





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